one 


1 


ties 


7 
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t  letter 


University  of  California  •  Berkeley 
PHILIP  WHALEN  COLLECTION 


THE  PETER  AND  ROSELL  HARVEY 
MEMORIAL  FUND 


€lje  Camfirifcge  $oet£ 

General  Editor,  BLISS  PERRY 


BROWNING 

MRS.  BROWNING 

BURNS 

BYRON 

DRYDEN 

ENGLISH  AND  SCOTTISH 

POPULAR  BALLADS 

HOLMES 

KEATS 

LONGFELLOW 

LOWELL 

MILTON 

POPE 

SCOTT 

SHAKESPEARE 

SHELLEY 

SPENSER 

TENNYSON 

WHITTIER 

WORDSWORTH 


CHAUCER 


Edited  by 

HORACE  E.  SCUDDER 
HARRIET  WATERS  PRESTON 
W.  E.  HENLEY 
PAUL  E.  MORE 
GEORGE  R.  NOYES 
HELEN  CHILD  SARGENT 
GEORGE  L.  KITTREDGE 
HORACE  E.  SCUDDER 
HORACE  E.  SCUDDER 
HORACE  E.  SCUDDER 
HORACE  E.  SCUDDER 
WILLIAM  VAUGHN  MOODY 
HENRY  W.  BOYNTON 
HORACE  E.  SCUDDER 
W.  A.  NEILSON 
GEORGE  E.  WOODBERRY 
R.  E.  NEIL  DODGE 
WILLIAM  J.  ROLFE 
HORACE  E.  SCUDDER 
A.  J.  GEORGE 
In  Preparation 

F.  N;  ROBINSON 


HOUGHTON    MIFFLIN   COMPANY 

BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 


€l)e  Cambridge  <£&ition  of  tfje 

EDITED  BY 
HORACE  E.  SCUDDER 


KEATS 

BY   THE   EDITOR 


COPYRIGHT,    1899,    BY    HOUGHTON,    MIFFLIN   AND  CO, 
ALL   RIGHTS    RESERVED 


EDITOR'S   NOTE 

THE  period  of  Keats's  poetical  production  was  so  brief,  and  he  leaped  so  quickly 
into  the  possession  of  his  poetical  powers,  that  almost  any  arrangement  of  his 
works,  which  was  orderly,  would  serve.  Yet  since  Keats  has  left  in  all  but  a  very 
few  cases  indication  of  the  date  of  composition,  and  since  even  delicate  intimations 
of  poetic  growth  in  the  case  of  so  rare  a  genius  are  worth  attention,  I  have  endeav- 
ored to  make  the  arrangement  as  nearly  chronological  as  the  evidence,  chiefly 
obtainable  from  Keats's  letters,  will  permit.  The  head-notes  disclose  all  instances 
where  I  have  had  to  fall  back  on  conjecture.  The  adoption  of  this  order  has  com- 
pelled me  to  disregard  the  grouping  of  the  volumes  published  by  Keats  and  the 
posthumous  publication  by  editors,  but  for  the  information  of  students  a  biblio- 
graphical note,  setting  forth  the  historical  order  of  publication,  is  given  in  the 
Appendix. 

The  text  of  the  poems  published  in  Keats's  three  volumes  has  been  carefully 
collated  with  copies  of  the  first  editions.  I  am  indebted  to  Mr.  F.  H.  Day  for  the 
opportunity  of  using  the  volumes  of  1817  and  1820,  and  to  Col.,T.  W.  Higgin- 
son  for  Endymion.  In  reprinting  the  posthumous  poems  I  have  followed  some- 
times Lord  Houghton  in  the  Life,  Letters  and  Literary  Remains  of  John  Keats, 
London,  1848,  and  the  same  editor's  Aldine  edition  of  1876,  sometimes  Mr. 
Sidney  Colvin  in  his  Letters  of  John  Keats,  London,  1891,  where  so  many  of 
the  poems  are  taken  from  Keats's  own  copy,  and  sometimes  the  text  given  by 
Mr.  H.  Buxton  Forman  in  his  careful  four  volume  edition,  London,  1883.  There 
are  a  good  many  manuscripts,  and  these,  together  with  the  printed  verses,  have 
a  variety  of  readings.  All  variations  of  consequence  are  noted  in  the  Appendix ; 
it  was  beyond  the  scope  of  this  series  to  give  every  minute  alteration.  For  an  ex- 
haustive statement,  the  curious  student  is  referred  to  the  invaluable  edition  by 
Mr.  Forman.  I  have  not  deemed  it  indispensable  to  follow  scrupulously  the  spell- 
ing and  punctuation  even  of  the  poems  whose  publication  was  supervised  by  Keats, 
but  I  have  not  wilfully  departed  from  either  in  accordance  with  any  mere  change 
of  fashion ;  the  spelling  conforms  to  the  accepted  spelling  of  Keats's  day ;  the 
capitalization  is  somewhat  modified ;  the  punctuation  is  studied  with  reference  to 
the  legibility  of  the  passage. 

For  the  prefatory  notes  I  have  been  mainly  indebted  to  Keats's  letters,  and  have 
endeavored,  as  far  as  possible,  to  put  the  reader  in  possession  of  such  light  as 
Keats  himself  throws  on  his  composition.  I  have  also,  in  pursuance  of  the  plan 
adopted  for  the  arrangement  of  the  poems,  indicated  in  each  instance  the  date, 
exactly  or  approximately.  In  accordance  with  the  general  scheme  of  the  Cam- 
bridge editions,  these  prefatory  notes  are  rarely  critical ;  they  are  designed  to  be 


vi  EDITOR'S    NOTE 

rather  historical  and  bibliographical.  In  the  preparation  of  these  notes,  as  also  of 
the  Notes  and  Illustrations  in  the  Appendix,  I  must  again  acknowledge  my  great 
indebtedness  to  Mr.  Forman. 

In  undertaking  to  assemble  Keats's  Complete  Poetical  Works,  I  have  been 
aware  that  I  was  including  some  things  which  neither  Keats  nor  any  one  else 
would  call  poetical.  Yet  besides  the  contribution  which  verse  makes  to  beauty, 
there  is  also  the  light  which  it  throws  on  the  poetical  mind  and  character.  And 
since  the  volume  of  Keats's  production  is  not  large,  and  much  of  his  posthumous 
poetry  is  rightly  classed  with  his  own  acknowledged  work,  it  seemed  best  to  give 
everything,  but  to  make  the  natural  discrimination  between  the  poetry  in  the  body 
of  the  volume  and  that  which  follows  in  the  division,  Supplementary  Verse.  The 
personality  of  Keats  is  so  vivid,  that  just  as  his  friends  in  his  lifetime  and  after 
his  death  carefully  garnered  every  scrap  which  he  wrote,  so  the  friends  created 
by  his  life  and  his  poetry  may  be  trusted  to  know  what  his  imperishable  verse  is, 
and  yet  will  handle  affectionately  even  the  toys  he  played  with. 

Although  I  have  endeavored  to  draw  from  Keats's  letters  such  passages  as  throw 
direct  light  on  his  poetry,  there  yet  remains  an  undefined  scholia  in  the  whole  body 
of  his  familiar  correspondence.  No  attentive  reader  of  Keats's  letters  will  fail 
to  find  in  these  unstudied,  spontaneous  expressions  of  the  poet's  mind  a  lambent 
light  playing  all  over  the  surface  of  his  poetry,  and  therefore  it  is  not  a  wide 
departure  from  the  scheme  of  this  series  of  poets  to  include,  in  the  same  volume 
with  Keats's  poems,  a  collection  also  of  his  letters.  This  collection  is  complete, 
though  one  or  two  brief  notes  will  not  be  found  here,  because  already  printed  in 
the  headings  to  poems.  I  have  been  dependent  for  the  text  mainly  upon  Mr. 
Colvin,  supplemented  by  the  minute  garnering  of  Mr.  Forman.  I  have  to  thank 
Mr.  John  Gilmer  Speed  for  his  courtesy  in  permitting  the  use  of  letters  which 
he  derived  from  the  papers  of  his  grandfather,  George  Keats. 

CAMBRIDGE,  August,  1899. 


TABLE   OF  CONTENTS 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH 


POEMS 


EARLY  POEMS. 
IMITATION  OF  SPENSER 

ON  DEATH 

To  CHATTEKTON 

To  BYRON 

4  WOMAN  !  WHEN  I  BEHOLD  THEE  FLIP- 
PANT, VAIN  ' 

To  SOME  LADIES 

ON  RECEIVING  A  CURIOUS  SHELL  AND  A 

COPY  OF  VERSES  FROM  THE  SAME  LA- 
DIES   

WRITTEN  ON  THE  DAY  THAT  MR.  LEIGH 
HUNT  LEFT  PRISON  .... 

To  HOPE 

ODE  TO  APOLLO 

HYMN  TO  APOLLO 

To  A  YOUNG  LADY  WHO  SENT  ME  A 
LAUREL  CROWN  .... 

SONNET  :  '  How  MANY  BARDS  GILD  THE 
LAPSES  OF  TIME  ' 

SONNET:  'KEEN,  FITFUL  GUSTS  ARE 
WHISP'RING  HERE  AND  THERE  ' 

SPENSERIAN  STANZA,  WRITTEN  AT  THE 
CLOSE  OF  CANTO  II.,  BOOK  V.,  OF 
'  THE  FAERIE  QUEENE  '  . 

ON  LEAVING  SOME  FRIENDS  AT  AN 
EARLY  HOUR 

>ON     FIRST     LOOKING    INTO    CHAPMAN'S 

HOMER   

EPISTLE  TO  GEORGE  FELTON  MATHEW 

To  :  'HADST  THOU  LTV'D  IN  DAYS 

OF  OLD'      

SONNET:   'As  FROM  THE  DARKENING 

GLOOM  A  SILVER  DOVE  ' 
SONNET  TO  SOLITUDE  .... 
T-SONNET  :  '  To  ONE  WHO  HAS  BEEN  LONG 

IN  CITY  PENT' 

To  A  FRIEND  WHO  SENT  ME  SOME  ROSES 
^SONNET  :  '  OH  !  HOW  I  LOVE,  ON  A  FAIR 

SUMMER'S  EVE  '          .... 
*  I  STOOD  TIPTOE  UPON  A  LITTLE  HILL ' 
^SLEEP  AND  POETRY        .... 
r  EPISTLE  TO  MY  BROTHER  GEORGE  . 
To  MY  BROTHER  GEORGE 


To '  HAD  I  A  MAN'S  FAIR  FORM, 

THEN  MIGHT  MY  SIGHS  '   ...        26 
SPECIMEN    OF    AN    INDUCTION    TO    A 
POEM       .......    27 

CALIDORE:  A  FRAGMENT    ...       28 
EPISTLE  TO  CHARLES  COWDEN  CLARKE    30 
To  MY  BROTHERS       ....       33 

ADDRESSED    TO    BENJAMIN     ROBERT 

HAYDON. 
71.  'GREAT  SPIRITS   NOW  ON   EARTH 

ARE  SOJOURNING  '        .  .  .  .33 

II.     '  HlGHMINDEDNESS,     A     JEALOUSY 

FOR  GOOD  ' 33 

To  KOSCIUSKO 34 

To  G.  A.  W 34 

STANZAS  :  '  IN  A  DREAR-NIGHTED  DE- 
CEMBER'          34 

WRITTEN  IN  DISGUST  OF  VULGAR  SU- 
PERSTITION          35 

SONNET  : '  HAPPY  is  ENGLAND  !  I  COULD 

BE  CONTENT' 35 

ON  THE  GRASSHOPPER  AND  CRICKET       35 
SONNET  :  '  AFTER  DARK  VAPOURS  HAVE 

OPPRESS'D  OUR  PLAINS  '  .        .        .36 
^WRITTEN  ON  THE  BLANK  SPACE  AT  THE 
END  OF   CHAUCER'S  TALE  OF  'THE 
FLOURE  AND  THE  LEFE'     ...    36 
ON  SEEING  THE  ELGIN  MARBLES      .       36 
To   HAYDON    (WITH    THE   PRECEDING 

SONNET) 36 

To  LEIGH  HUNT,  ESQ 37 

~^ON  THE  SEA 37 

LINES  :  '  UNFELT,  UNHEARD,  UNSEEN  '     37 
ON  -   -  '  THINK    NOT   OF   IT,    SWEET 

ONE,  so' 38 

ON  A  PICTURE  OF  LEANDER      .        .       38 
ON  LEIGH  HUNT'S  POEM  '  THE  STORY 

OF  RIMINI  ' 38 

\  SONNET  :  '  WHEN  I  HAVE  FEARS  THAT 

I   MAY  CEASE  TO  BE  '  .  .  .          39 

ON  SEEING  A  LOCK  OF  MILTON'S  HAIR    39 

"I  ON     SITTING      DOWN     TO     READ     '  KlNG 

LEAR'  ONCE  AGAIN      ....    40 
-i  LINES  ON  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN    .       40 


Vlll 


TABLE  OF   CONTENTS 


ROBIN  HOOD 41 

To  THE  NILE 41 

To  SPENSER 42 

SONG  WRITTEN  ON  A  BLANK  PAGE  IN 
BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER'S  WORKS 
BETWEEN  '  CUPID'S  REVENGE  '  AND 
'  THE  Two  NOBLE  KINSMEN  '  .  42 
FRAGMENT  :  '  WELCOME  JOY  AND  WEL- 
COME SORROW' 42 

WHAT  THE  THRUSH  SAID    ...       43 
IN  ANSWER  TO  A  SONNET  ENDING  THUS  : 

'  Dark  eyes  are  dearer  far 
Than  those  that  mock  the  hyacinthine  bell.'  .     43 


To  JOHN  HAMILTON  REYNOLDS 
THE  HUMAN  SEASONS 

ENDYMION 


THE  POEMS  OF  1818-1819. 

ISABELLA,  OR  THE  POT  OF  BASIL 
To  HOMER        .... 
FRAGMENT  OF  AN  ODE  TO  MAIA 
SONG  :  '  HUSH,  HUSH  !  TREAD  SOFTLY  ! 
HUSH,  MY  DEAR  ! ' 

WRITTEN    DURING    A   TOUR    IN 

SCOTLAND. 
I. 


110 
,  119 
'119 

120 


ON    VISITING    THE    TOMB    OF 

BURNS 120 

II.    To  AILSA  ROCK  .        .        .       .121 

III.  WRITTEN    IN    THE    COTTAGE 

WHERE  BURNS  WAS  BORN   .        121 

IV.  AT  FINGAL'S  CAVE    .        .       .122 
V.    WRITTEN   UPON   THE  TOP  OF 

BEN  NEVIS  ....      123 
TRANSLATION  FROM  A  SONNET  OF  RON- 
SARD       123 

To  A  LADY  SEEN  FOR  A  FEW  MOMENTS 

AT  VAUXHALL 123 

FANCY 124 

ODE  :    '  BARDS    OF    PASSION    AND    OF 

MIRTH' 125 

SONG  :  '  I  HAD  A  DOVE  AND  THE  SWEET 

DOVE  DIED  ' 125 

ODE  ON  MELANCHOLY  ....     126 
THE  EVE  OF  ST.  AGNES        .        .       .127 
ODE  ON  A  GRECIAN  URN    ...      134 
ODE  ON  INDOLENCE        .        .       .       .135 
SONNET  :    '  WHY  DID  I   LAUGH   TO- 
NIGHT ?     NO  VOICE  WILL  TELL  '      .  137 

ODE  TO  FANNY 137 

A  DREAM,  AFTER  READING  DANTE'S 

EPISODE  OF  PAOLO  AND  FRANCESCA  138 
LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  .  .  139 
CHORUS  OF  FAIRIES  ....  140 
FAERY  SONGS: 

I.  SHED   NO   TEAR!     0    SHED    NO 
TEAR!  .  141 


II.    AH  !    WOE   IS   ME  !    POOR   SILVER- 
WING  !  .        .        .        .        .        .       141 

ON  FAME 142 

ANOTHER  ON  FAME  ....      142 

To  SLEEP 142 

ODE  TO  PSYCHE         ....      142 
SONNET  :    *  IF  BY  DULL  RHYMES  OUR 

ENGLISH  MUST  BE  CHAIN'D'  .  .  144 
ODE  TO  A  NIGHTINGALE  .  .  .  144 
LAMIA  ...  .  146 


DRAMAS. 
OTHO  THE  GREAT  :  A  TRAGEDY  IN  FIVE 


ACTS    . 
KING   STEPHEN: 

MENT 


A     DRAMATIC     FRAG- 


THE  EVE  OF  ST.  MARK 


158 

192 
196 


HYPERION:  A  FRAGMENT        .       .  198 

TO  AUTUMN 213 

VERSES  TO  FANNY  BRAWNE. 
SONNET  :  *  THE  DAY  is  GONE  AND  ALL 

ITS  SWEETS  ARE  GONE*  .  .  .214 

LINES  TO  FANNY 214 

To   FANNY  :    *  I   CRY   YOUR  MERCY  — 


PITY  —  LOVE  —  AY,   LOVE  I 


f  > 


.  215 


THE   CAP   AND   BELLS;    OR,    THE 
JEALOUSIES  216 


THE  LAST  SONNET 


.  232 


SUPPLEMENTARY  VERSE. 

I.  HYPERION:  A  VISION     ...      233 
II.  FRAGMENTS: 

I.   '  WHERE  's   THE    POET  ?    SHOW 

HIM  !   SHOW  HIM '      .  .          .   238 

II.  MODERN  LOVE          ...      238 

III.  FRAGMENT    OF    '  THE    CASTLE 

BUILDER' 239 

IV.  EXTRACTS  FROM  AN  OPERA  : 

4  O  !  WERE  I  ONE  OF  THE 

OLYMPIAN  TWELVE  '  .  239 
DAISY'S  SONG  .  .  .  .239 
FOLLY'S  SONG  ...  240 
'On,  I  AM  FRIGHTEN'D  WITH 

MOST  HATEFUL  THOUGHTS  !  '   240 

SONG  :        '  THE       STRANGER 

LIGHTED   FROM  HIS  STEED*      240 

'  ASLEEP  !  O  SLEEP  A  LITTLE 

WHILE,    WHITE   PEARL  !  '          .240 

III.  FAMILIAR  VERSES  : 
STANZAS  TO  Miss  WYLIE    .        .       .      240 
EPISTLE    TO    JOHN    HAMILTON    REY- 
NOLDS      240 

A  DRAUGHT  OF  SUNSHINE  .        .        .242 
AT  TEIGNMOUTH 242 


TABLE   OF   CONTENTS 


IX 


THE  DEVON  MAID       ....      243  SHAKING  EVE'S  APPLE  .        ...  248 

ACROSTIC  :  GEOKGIANA  AUGUSTA  KEATS  243  A  PROPHECY  :    TO  GEORGE  KEATS  IN 

MEG  MERRILIES 243  AMERICA     ......      249 

A  SONG  ABOUT  MYSELF      ...      244  A  LITTLE  EXTEMPORE    .        .        .        .249 

To  THOMAS  KEATS 245  SPENSERIAN  STANZAS  ON  CHARLES  AR- 

THE  GADFLY 245  MITAGE  BROWN        ....      250 

ON  HEARING  THE  BAGPIPE  AND  SEEING  *  TWO  OR  THREE  POSIES '          .  .  .251 

'  THE  STRANGER  '  PLAYED  AT  INVER-  A  PARTY  OF  LOVERS  .        .        .        .251 
ARY         .......  246  To  GEORGE  KEATS:  WRITTEN  IN  SICK- 
LINES    WRITTEN    IN    THE     HIGHLANDS                          NESS 251 

AFTER  A  VISIT  TO  BlJRNS's  COUNTRY  246  ON  OXFORD    ,           .                      .           .           .252 

MRS.  CAMERON  AND  BEN  NEVIS       .247         To  A  CAT  .       .       .       .       .       .        .252 

LETTERS 

1.  CHARLES  COWDEN  CLARKE       •       .       .       •       .       .       .  October  31, 1816     ...  255 

2.  THE  SAME .       .       .  December  17,  1816    .     .    255 

3.  JOHN  HAMILTON  REYNOLDS      .       ...       .       .       .  March  2,  1817    ....  255 

4.  THE  SAME .       -       .       .       .  March  17,  1817      ...    255 

5.  GEORGE  AND  THOMAS  KEATS April  15,  1817    ....  256 

6.  JOHN  HAMILTON  REYNOLDS April  17, 1817  ....    257 

7.  LEIGH  HUNT May  10,  1817      ....  258 

8.  BENJAMIN  ROBERT  HAYDON May  10,  1817    ....    260 

9.  MESSRS.  TAYLOR  AND  HESSEY May  16,  1817      ....  262 

10.  THE  SAME .  July  8,  1817      ....    263 

11.  MARIANE  AND  JANE  REYNOLDS         .        .     -  .       •       .       .  September  5,  1817  .    .    .  263 

12.  FANNY  KEATS '.  September  10,  1817   .    .    264 

13.  JANE  REYITOLDS September  14,  1817     .    .  265 

14.  JOHN  HAMILTON  REYNOLDS September  21,  1817    .    .    267 

15.  THE  SAME September,  1817     .     .    .269 

16.  BENJAMIN  ROBERT  HAYDON September  28,  1817   .    .    269 

17.  BENJAMIN  BAILEY Octobers,  1817  .    .    .    .270 

18.  THE  SAME November  1, 1817      .    .    271 

19.  THE  SAME November  5,  1817  .    .    .273 

20.  CHARLES  WENTWORTH  DILKE November,  1817    .    .    .    273 

21.  BENJAMIN  BAILEY November  22, 1817      .    .  273 

22.  JOHN  HAMILTON  REYNOLDS  .......  November  22,  1817    .    .    275 

23.  GEORGE  AND  THOMAS  KEATS    .        .       .               w              .  December  22,  1817      .    .  276 

24.  THE  SAME .       .       ,       .  January  5,  1818     ...    277 

25.  BENJAMIN  ROBERT  HAYDON    .        .        .        ,        .        .        .  January  10,  1818    .    .    .  279 

26.  JOHN  TAYLOR         .        .        .        .       .        .        .        .        .  January  10,  1818 ...    280 

27.  GEORGE  AND  THOMAS  KEATS  .       .       .       .       .       .       .  January  13, 1818    .    .    .  280 

28.  JOHN  TAYLOR January  23,  1818  ...    281 

29.  GEORGE  AND  THOMAS  KEATS January  23,  1818    .     .    .  281 

30.  BENJAMIN  BAILEY January  23,  1818  .     .    .    283 

31.  JOHN  TAYLOR January  30,  1818     .    .    .284 

32.  JOHN  HAMILTON  REYNOLDS January  31,  1818  ...    285 

33.  THE  SAME February  3,  1818    .     .     .285 

34.  JOHN  TAYLOR February  5,  1818  ...    286 

35.  GEORGE  AND  THOMAS  KEATS February  14,  1818  .    .    .286 

36.  JOHN  HAMILTON  REYNOLDS February  19,  1818     .    .    287 

37.  GEORGE  AND  THOMAS  KEATS February  21,  1818  ...  288 

38.  JOHN  TAYLOR February  27,  1818      .     .    289 

39.  MESSRS.  TAYLOR  AND  HESSEY March,  1818 290 

40.  BENJAMIN  BAILEY March  13,  1818     ...    290 

41.  JOHN  HAMILTON  REYNOLDS March  14,  1818  ....  292 


TABLE  OF   CONTENTS 


42.  BENJAMIN  ROBERT  HAYDON March  21,  1818      .    .    .    293 

43.  MESSRS.  TAYLOR  AND  HESSEY March  21,  1818  .    .    .    .293 

44.  JAMES  RICE March  24,  1818      .     .     .    294 

45.  JOHN  HAMILTON  REYNOLDS March  25,  1818  ....  295 

46.  BENJAMIN  ROBERT  HAYDON        ......  April  8, 1818     ....    295 

47.  JOHN  HAMILTON  REYNOLDS April  9,  1818 296 

48.  THE  SAME April  10,  1818  ....    297 

49.  JOHN  TAYLOR April  24,  1818    ....  298 

50.  JOHN  HAMILTON  REYNOLDS April  27,  1818  ....    299 

51.  THE  SAME. May  3,  1818  .....  299 

52.  MRS.  JEFFREY '  May,  1818 303 

53.  BENJAMIN  BAILEY May  28, 1818 303 

54.  MISSES  M.  AND  S.  JEFFREY June  4,  1818      ....    304 

55.  BENJAMIN  BAILEY               June  10,  1818     ....  305 

56.  JOHN  TAYLOR .  June  21,  1818    ....    306 

57.  THOMAS  KEATS June  29,  1818     .    .    .    .307 

58.  FANNY  KEATS July  2, 1818 308 

59.  THOMAS  KEATS July  2, 1818 310 

60.  THE  SAME July  10,  1818     ....    312 

61.  JOHN  HAMILTON  REYNOLDS July  11, 1818 314 

62.  THOMAS  KEATS July  17, 1818     ....    316 

63.  BENJAMIN  BAILEY July  18,  1818 318 

64.  THOMAS  KEATS July  23,  1818    ....    320 

65.  THE  SAME August  3,  1818  ....  322 

66.  MRS.  WYLIE August  6, 1818  ....    324 

67.  FANNY  KEATS August  18,  1818      .    .    .325 

68.  THE  SAME August  25,  1818    ...    326 

69.  JANE  REYNOLDS September  1,  1818  .     .    .326 

70.  CHARLES  WENTWORTH  DILKE September  21,  1818  .    .    326 

71.  JOHN  HAMILTON  REYNOLDS September  22,  1818     .    .  327 

72.  FANNY  KEATS October  9,  1818     ...    328 

73.  JAMES  AUGUSTUS  HESSEY        .        . October  9, 1818  ....  328 

74.  GEORGE  AND  GEORGIANA  KEATS October  13-31,  1818  .    .    329 

75.  FANNY  KEATS October  16,  1818     ...  336 

76.  THE  SAME October  26,  1818    ...    336 

77.  RICHARD  WOODHOUSE October  27, 1818     ...  336 

78.  FANNY  KEATS November  5,  1818      .     .    337 

79.  JAMES  RICE .  November  24,  1818      .     .  337 

80.  FANNY  KEATS December  1,  1818  ...    338 

81.  GEORGE  AND  GEORGIANA  KEATS December  18,  1818      .    .  338 

82.  RICHARD  WOODHOUSE   ........  December  18, 1818     .     .    348 

83.  MRS.  REYNOLDS December  22,  1818      .     .  349 

84.  BENJAMIN  ROBERT  HAYDON December  22, 1818    .    .    349 

85.  JOHN  TAYLOR December  24,  1818 .     .     .349 

86.  BENJAMIN  ROBERT  HAYDON December  27,  1818    .     .    349 

87.  FANNY  KEATS December  30,  1818      .     .  350 

88.  BENJAMIN  ROBERT  HAYDON January  4, 1819     ...    350 

89.  THE  SAME  . January  7,  1819      ...  350 

90.  THE  SAME January,  1819  ....    351 

91.  FANNY  KEATS January,  1819    ....  351 

92.  CHARLES  WENTWORTH  DILKE  AND  MRS.  DILKE     .        .  January  24,  1819  ...    351 

93.  FANNY  KEATS February  11, 1819  .    .    .352 

94.  GEORGE  AND  GEORGIANA  KEATS February  14,  1819     .     .     353 

95.  FANNY  KEATS February  27,  1819       .     .  371 

96.  BENJAMIN  ROBERT  HAYDON March  8,  1819  ....    371 

97.  FANNY  KEATS March  13,  1819  ....  372 

98.  THE  SAME                                                          ....  March  24,  1819     ...    373 


TABLE   OF   CONTENTS  xi 

99.  JOSEPH  SEVERN March  29  (?),  1819  .     .     .373 

100.  BENJAMIN  ROBERT  HAYDON April  13, 1819  ....    373 

101.  FANNY  KEATS April  13, 1819     .    .    .    .374 

102.  THE  SAME April  17,  1819  ....    375 

103.  THE  SAME May  13,  1819      ....  375 

104.  WILLIAM  HASLAM May  13,  1819     ....    375 

105.  FANNY  KEATS May  26,  1819      ....  376 

106.  Miss  JEFFREY May  31,  1819    ....    376 

107.  THE  SAME June  9, 1819 377 

108.  FANNY  KEATS June  9, 1819      ....    378 

109.  JAMES  ELMES     .                June  12,  1819      .     .     .     .378 

110.  FANNY  KEATS June  14,  1819    ....    379 

111.  THE  SAME .        .        .  June  16,  1819     ....  379 

112.  BENJAMIN  ROBERT  HAYDON June  17,  1819   ....    379 

113.  FANNY  BRAWNE        .        .        .       .        ...       .        .    July  3,  1819 380 

114.  FANNY  KEATS         ....       .        .       .       .        .  July  6, 1819      ....    381 

115.  FANNY  BRAWNE         .        ...        ...       .       .    July  8, 1819 382 

116.  JOHN  HAMILTON  REYNOLDS         .        .        .  •     .        .        .  July  11, 1819    ....    382 

117.  FANNY  BRAWNE         .        .        .       .        ....       .  July  15, 1819 383 

118.  THE  SAME        .        .        .        .        .        ...       .        .  July  27,  1819    ....    384 

119.  CHARLES  WENTWORTH  DILKB        .       ....       .        .  July  31,  1819      ....  385 

120.  FANNY  BRAWNE     .        .        .       .....       .       .  August  9,  1819      ...    386 

121.  BENJAMIN  BAILEY    .        ....        .       .       .        .        .  August  15, 1819      .    .    .  387 

122.  FANNY  BRAWNE     .        .  -      .        ^       .       .       .        .       .  August  16,  1819    ...    388 

123.  JOHN  TAYLOR.  .        .        .       .        .       .       .       .       .        .  August  23,  1819      .    .     .  389 

124.  JOHN  HAMILTON  REYNOLDS         .       ...       .       .  August  25,  1819    ...    390 

125.  FANNY  KEATS    .       *       .        .        ....       .        .  August  28,  1819      ...  390 

126.  JOHN  TAYLOR         .        .        .       .       .        .  <      .       .  •  - .  September  1,  1819     .     .    392 

127.  THE  SAMB  .        .       .       .        .......        .  September  5, 1819       .    .  392 

128.  FANNY  BRAWNE     .        .        .        .       .        .       .       .        .  September  14,  1819  .     .    393 

129.  GEORGE  AND  GEORGIANA  KEATS September  17, 1819    .    .  394 

130.  .        .        .        .        . 407 

131.  JOHN  HAMILTON  REYNOLDS September  22, 1819     .    .  407 

132.  CHARLES  WENTWORTH  DILKE September  22,  1819   .    .    409 

133.  CHARLES  ARMITAGE  BROWN September  23,  1819     .    .  410 

134.  THE  SAME September  23, 1819  .     .    411 

135.  CHARLES  WENTWORTH  DILKB October  1,  1819      .     .     .  412 

136.  BENJAMIN  ROBERT  HAYDON        .        .        •     -*l       .        .  October  3,  1819     .     .    .    412 

137.  FANNY  BRAWNE         .        .        ,        .        .._...        .  October  11,  1819     .    .    .413 

138.  THE  SAME        ...        .        .      . .        .        .        .        .  October  13,  1819   ...    413 

139.  FANNY  KEATS    .        .        .        .        .        .       .        .        .        .  October  16,  1819     .    .    .414 

140.  FANNY  BRAWNE     .        .        .       .        .       .        .       .       .  October  19,  1819   ...    414 

141.  JOSEPH  SEVERN  .        .        .......        .        .  October  27,  1819     .     .    .415 

142.  JOHN  TAYLOR         .        .        .        ......  November  17,  1819    .    .    415 

143.  FANNY  KEATS November  17,  1819      .     .  416 

144.  JOSEPH  SEVERN December  6,  1819      .     .    416 

145.  JAMES  RICE                          < December,  1819      .     .     .416 

146.  FANNY  KEATS December  20,  1819    .    .    417 

147.  THE  SAME  . December  22,  1819      .     .  418 

148.  GEORGIANA  AUGUSTA  KEATS ,  January  13,  1820  .    .    .    418 

149.  FANNY  BRAWNE 423 

150.  FANNY  KEATS February  6,  1820  ...    423 

151.  THE  SAME February  8,  1820    ...  424 

152.  FANNY  BRAWNE 424 

153.  THE  SAME 424 

154.  FANNY  KEATS February  11, 1820      .     .    425 

155.  THE  SAME February  14, 1820   ...  425 


xii  TABLE   OF   CONTENTS 

156.  FANNY  BKAWNE 425 

157.  THE  SAME 425 

158.  THE  SAME 426 

159.  JAMES  RICE February  16, 1820  .    .    .426 

160.  FANNY  KEATS February  19,  1820     .    .    427 

161.  FANNY  BBAWNE 427 

162.  THE  SAME 427 

163.  THE  SAME 428 

164.  JOHN  HAMILTON  REYNOLDS February  23, 1820      .    .    428 

165.  FANNY  BKAWNE 429 

166.  FANNY  KEATS February  24,  1820     .    .    429 

167.  FANNY  BRAWNE 429 

168.  THE  SAME 429 

169.  THE  SAME 430 

170.  THE  SAME 430 

171.  THE  SAME 430 

172.  THE  SAME 430 

173.  CHARLES  WENTWORTH  DILKE March  4,  1820    ....  431 

174.  FANNY  BRAWNE 432 

175.  THE  SAME 432 

176.  THE  SAME 432 

177.  THE  SAME ^. '.432 

178.  FANNY  KEATS March  20, 1820      ...    433 

179.  FANNY  BRAWNE 433 

180.  THE  SAME 433 

181.  THE  SAME 433 

182.  FANNY  KEATS April  1,  1820     ....    434 

183.  THE  SAME April,  1820 434 

184.  THE  SAME April  12,  1820  ....    434 

185.  THE  SAME April  21,  1820    ....  435 

186.  THE  SAME May  4,  1820      ....    435 

187.  CHARLES  WENTWORTH  DILKE May,  1820 436 

188.  FANNY  BRAWNE 436 

189.  THE  SAME 436 

190.  THE  SAME       .        .   • 436 

191.  JOHN  TAYLOR June  11,  1820     ....  437 

192.  CHARLES  ARMITAGE  BROWN June,  1820 437 

193.  FANNY  KEATS June  26,  1820     ....  438 

194!  FANNY  BRAWNE 438 

195.  FANNY  KEATS July  5,  1820 439 

196.  BENJAMIN  ROBERT  HAYDON July,  1820 440 

197.  FANNY  KEATS July  22,  1820    ....    440 

198.  FANNY  BRAWNE 440 

199.  THE  SAME 441 

200.  FANNY  KEATS August  14,  1820      .    .    .442 

201.  PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY August,  1820    ....    442 

202.  JOHN  TAYLOR August  14, 1820     ...  443 

203.  BENJAMIN  ROBERT  HAYDON August,  1820    ....    444 

204.  JOHN  TAYLOR August  15,  1820      ...  444 

205.  CHARLES  ARMITAGE  BROWN August,  1820    ....    444 

206.  FANNY  KEATS         .        .        . August  23,  1820      ...  445 

207.  CHARLES  ARMITAGE  BROWN August,  1820    ....    445 

208.  September,  1820     .     .     .445 

209.  CHARLES  ARMITAOE  BROWN September  28,  1820  .    .    446 

210.  MRS.  BRAWNE October  24,  1820     ...  447 

211.  CHARLES  ARMITAGE  BROWN November  1, 1820     .    .    447 

212.  THE  SAME November  30, 1820      .     .  448 


TABLE   OF   CONTENTS  xiii 

NOTES  AND  ILLUSTRATIONS. 

I.  POEMS          .  451 

II.  LETTERS 459 

BIBLIOGRAPHICAL  LIST  OF  KEATS'S  POEMS 463 

INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 465 

INDEX  OF  TITLES 467 

INDEX  TO  LETTERS 471 

NOTE.  The  frontispiece  is  a  photogravure  by  John  Andrew  and  Son  from  a  painting  made  by 
Joseph  Severn  in  his  old  age  after  the  picture  painted  by  him  in  his  youth.  The  painting  was  in 
the  possession  of  the  late  John  W.  Field,  Esq.,  and  is  now  the  property  of  Williams, College,  by 
whose  courtesy  this  copy  was  made. 

The  vignette  is  from  a  portrait  by  the  same  artist  in  the  National  Portrait  Gallery,  London. 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH 

JOHN  KEATS  was  born  in  Finsbury,  London,  on  either  the  29th  or  the  31st  of 
October,  1795.  He  died  in  an  apartment  overlooking  the  Piazza  di  Spagna, 
Rome,  February  23,  1821.  Thus  his  life  was  a  brief  span  of  a  few  months  more 
than  twenty-five  years,  and  as  his  first  acknowledged  verses  were  written  in  the 
autumn  of  1813,  and  his  last  sonnet  was  composed  in  the  autumn  of  1820,  his 
poetical  career  was  seven  years  long.  Within  that  time  he  composed  the  verses 
included  in  this  volume,  yet  by  far  the  largest  portion  may  be  referred  to  the  three 
years  1818-1820,  and  if  one  distilled  the  whole,  the  precious  deposit  would  be  but 
a  few  hundred  lines.  For  all  that,  perhaps  because  of  it,  and  because  Keats  with 
his  warm  human  passion  wrote  what  is  almost  an  autobiography  in  his  letters,  we 
are  able  to  get  a  tolerably  clear  notion  of  his  early  training  and  associations,  and 
to  follow  quite  closely  the  development  of  his  nature  after  he  began  to  devote  him- 
self to  poetry.  • 

His  father,  Thomas  Keats,  was  not  a  Londoner  by  birth,  but  came  from  the 
country  to  the  town  early,  and  was  head  hostler  in  a  livery  stable  before  he  was 
twenty.  He  married  Frances  Jennings,  the  daughter  of  his  master,  who  thereupon 
retired  from  business,  leaving  it  in  the  hands  of  his  son-in-law.  The  young  couple 
lived  over  the  stable  at  first,  but  when  their  family  increased,  they  removed  to  a 
house  in  the  neighborhood.  John  Keats  was  the  first  born.  He  had  two  brothers 
and  a  sister  who  grew  to  maturity.  George  Keats  was  sixteen  months  his  junior ; 
Thomas  was  four  years  younger,  and  Fanny,  who  was  born  in  1803,  was  a  girl  of 
ten  when  John  Keats  was  making  his  first  serious  ventures  in  poetry. 

The  little  that  is  known  of  Keats's  parents  is  yet  sufficient  to  show  them  persons 
of  generous  qualities  and  lively  temperament.  They  were  prosperous  in  their 
lives,  and  meant  to  better  the  condition  of  their  children,  so  they  sent  the  boys  to 
good  schools.  The  father  died  when  John  Keats  was  in  his  tenth  year,  and  his 
mother  shortly  after  married  a  man  who  appears  to  have  been  her  husband's  suc- 
cessor in  business  as  well  as  in  affections,  but  the  marriage  proved  an  unhappy 
one ;  there  was  a  separation,  and  the  stepfather  scarcely  came  into  the  boy's  life  to 
affect  him  for  good  or  for  ill.  He  was  still  a  school-boy,  not  yet  fifteen,  when 
his  mother  died,  and  he  grieved  for  her  with  the  force  of  a  passionate  nature  that 
through  a  short  life  was  to  find  various  modes  of  expressing  its  keen  sensibility. 

As  Keats  went  early  to  school,  the  influences  which  came  most  forcibly  into  his 
boyhood  were  from  his  brothers  and  schoolmates.  Tom,  the  youngest  brother,  was 
always  frail.  George,  who  was  nearer  John's  age,  was  like  him  in  spirit  and  more 
robust.  His  recollections  of  his  brothers,  written  after  both  Tom  and  John  had 
died,  are  frank  enough  to  make  the  relation  undoubtedly  truthful :  — 


xvi  JOHN   KEATS 


4 1  loved  him  [John]  from  boyhood,  even  when  he  wronged  me,  for  the  good- 
ness of  his  heart  and  the  nobleness  of  his  spirit.  Before  we  left  school  we  quar- 
relled often,  and  fought  fiercely,  and  I  can  safely  say  and  my  schoolfellows  will 
bear  witness,  that  John's  temper  was  the  cause  of  all,  still  we  were  more  attached 
than  brothers  ever  are.  From  the  time  we  were  boys  at  school,  where  we  loved, 
jangled  and  fought  alternately,  until  we  separated  in  1818,  I  in  a  great  measure 
relieved  him  by  continual  sympathy,  explanation  and  inexhaustible  spirits  and 
good  humor,  from  many  a  bitter  fit  of  hypochondriasm.  He  avoided  teasing  any 
one  with  his  miseries  but  Tom  and  myself,  and  often  asked  our  forgiveness ;  vent- 
ing and  discussing  them  gave  him  relief/ 

The  school  which  the  boys  attended  was  kept  by  the  Rev.  John  Clarke  at  En- 
field,  and  a  son  of  Mr.  Clarke  was  Charles  Cowden  Clarke,  the  'ever  young- 
hearted  '  as  his  happy-natured  wife  calls  him,  who  was  seven  or  eight  years  the 
senior  of  John  Keats,  but  became  his  intimate  friend  and  remained  such  through 
his  life.  Clarke's  own  reminiscence  of  his  friend  seems  to  fill  out  George  Keats's 
sketch :  — 

'  He  was  a  favorite  with  all.  Not  the  less  beloved  was  he  for  having  a  highly 
pugnacious  spirit,  which  when  roused  was  one  of  the  most  picturesque  exhibitions 
—  off  the  stage  —  I  ever  saw.  .  .  .  His  passion  at  times  was  almost  ungoverna- 
ble ;  and  his  brother  George,  being  considerably  the  taller  and  stronger,  used  fre- 
quently to  hold  him  down  by  main  force,  laughing  when  John  was  in  one  of  his 
moods,  and  was  endeavoring  to  beat  him.  It  was  all,  however,  a  wisp-of-straw 
conflagration ;  for  he  had  an  intensely  tender  affection  for  his  brothers,  and  proved 
it  upon  the  most  trying  occasions.  He  was  not  merely  the  favorite  of  all,  like  a 
pet  prize-fighter,  for  his  terrier  courage ;  but  his  highmindedness,  his  utter  uncon- 
sciousness of  a  mean  motive,  his  placability,  his  generosity,  wrought  so  general  a 
feeling  in  his  behalf  that  I  never  heard  a  word  of  disapproval  from  any  one,  supe- 
rior or  equal,  who  had  known  him.' 

The  reader  will  look  in  vain  for  any  signs  of  a. polemic  nature  in  Keats's  verse, 
T)ut  it  is  easy  enough  to  find  witness  to  his  moodiness,  as  in  such  a  sonnet  as  that 
beginning :  — 

'  Why  did  I  laugh  to-night  ?     No  voice  will  tell,' 

and  of  the  ungovernable  passion  there  is  evidence  enough  in  his  later  life,  though 
it  took  then  another  form.  Yet  the  boyish  impulsiveness  which  had  its  rude  ex- 
pression in  animal  spirits  turned  in  youth  into  a  headlong  eagerness  for  books 
before,  during,  and  after  school  hours.  According  to  Charles  Cowden  Clarke  he 
won  all  the  literature  prizes  of  the  school,  and  took  upon  himself  for  fun  the  trans- 
lation of  the  entire  JEtneid  into  prose.  He  read  voraciously,  and  the  same  friend 
says :  *  In  my  mind's  eye  I  now  see  him  at  supper,  sitting  back  on  the  form  from 
the  table,  holding  the  folio  volume  of  Burnet's  History  of  his  Own  Time  between 
himself  and  the  table,  eating  his  meal  from  behind  it.  This  work,  and  Leigh 
Hunt's  Examiner,  which  my  father  took  in,  and  I  used  to  lend  to  Keats  —  no 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH  xvii 

doubt  laid  the  foundation  of  his  love  of  civil  and  religious  liberty.'  Still  more 
definite  in  its  relation  to  his  art  was  the  intimate  acquaintance  he  then  formed  with 
Tooke's  Pantheon  and  Lempriere's  Dictionary. 

The  death  of  Keats's  mother  brought  an  interruption  to  his  schooling.  The 
grandmother,  who  was  still  living,  created  a  trust  for  the  benefit  of  the  Keats  chil- 
dren, and  committed  its  care  to  two  guardians,  one  of  whom,  Mr.  Richard  Abbey, 
was  the  active  trustee,  and  though  the  fund  seems  to  have  been  reasonably  suffi- 
cient to  protect  the  young  people  against  the  ordinary  demands  for  a  living,  both 
John  and  George  Keats  seem  always  to  have  been  sorely  pinched  for  means.  Mr. 
Abbey  at  once  removed  John  Keats  from  school  and  had  him  apprenticed  to  a 
surgeon,  Mr.  Hammond,  for  a  term  of  five  years.  Mr.  Hammond  lived  at  Edmon- 
ton, not  far  from  Enfield,  and  Keats  was  wont  to  walk  over  to  the  Clarkes'  once  a 
week  or  oftener  to  see  his  friends  and  borrow  books. 

He  was  just  fifteen  when  he  began  thus  to  equip  himself  for  a  place  in  the  world, 
and  for  a  little  more  than  five  years  he  was  in  training  for  the  practice  of  medicine 
and  surgery.  His  apprenticeship  to  Mr.  Hammond  did  not  last  as  long  as  this,  for 
the  indentures  were  cancelled  about  a  year  before  the  term  expired,  but  Keats  then 
went  up  to  London  to  continue  his  studies  at  St.  Thomas's  and  Guy's  hospitals. 
He  passed  with  credit  his  examination  as  licentiate  at  Apothecaries'  Hall,  July  26, 
1815,  and  received  an  appointment  at  Guy's  in  the  March  following.  It  does  not 
appear  exactly  when  he  abandoned  his  profession.  It  may  be  said,  with  some 
truth,  that  he  never  actually  abandoned  it  in  intention ;  he  held  it  in  reserve  as 
a  possible  resort,  but  it  seems  doubtful  if  he  ever  took  up  the  practice  for- 
mally outside  the  walls  of  the  hospital.  Once  when  his  friend  Charles  Cowden 
Clarke  asked  him  about  his  attitude  toward  his  profession,  he  expressed  his  grave 
doubt  if  he  should  go  on  with  it.  '  The  other  day,'  he  said  to  him,  i  daring 
the  lecture,  there  came  a  sunbeam  into  the  room,  and  with  it  a  whole  troop  of 
creatures  floating  in  the  ray ;  and  I  was  off  with  them  to  Oberon  and  fairy  land.' 
'  My  last  operation,'  he  told  another  man,  *  was  the  opening  of  a  man's  temporal 
artery.  I  did  it  with  the  utmost  nicety,  but  reflecting  on  what  passed  through  my 
mind  at  the  time,  my  dexterity  seemed  a  miracle,  and  I  never  took  up  the  lancet 
again.' 

It  may  be  assumed  that  not  later  than  the  summer  of  1816,  when  Keats  was 
approaching  his  majority,  he  laid  aside  his  instruments,  never  to  resume  them.  It 
is  not  easy  to  reckon  the  contribution  which  these  years  of  study  and  of  brief 
practice  in  the  medical  art  made  to  his  intellectual,  much  less  to  his  poetical 
development.  With  his  active  mind  he  no  doubt  appropriated  some  facts  —  per- 
haps we  owe  to  his  studies  some  lines  in  his  verse,  as  that  in  '  Isabella,'  where  in 
describing  the  Ceylon  diver  contributing  to  the  brothers'  wealth,  he  says  :  — 

*  For  them  his  ears  gush'd  blood ; ' 

but  it  is  more  probable  that,  like  many  another  young  student,  he  went  through  his 
tasks  with  sufficient  fidelity  to  secure  proper  credit,  but  without  any  of  that  devo- 


xviii  JOHN    KEATS 


tion  which  is  the  only  real  '  learning  by  heart.'  It  is  more  to  the  purpose  that 
during  the  years  in  which  he  was  forming  his  mental  habits,  he  was  steadied  by 
intellectual  exercise  while  he  was  obeying  instinctively  the  voice  which  was  calling 
him  more  and  more  loudly. 

The  actual  record  of  his  poetry  up  to  this  date  of  the  summer  of  1816  is  not 
extensive,  but  it  is  indicative  of  his  growing  power,  of  his  taste  in  reading  and 
observation,  of  his  companionship,  and  most  notably  of  his  consciousness  of  the 
poetic  spirit.  Along  with  a  few  pieces  like  the  lines  '  To  Some  Ladies,'  which 
show  how  little  skill  he  had  in  making  poetry  a  mere  parlor  maid,  there  are  poems 
which  show  how  he  was  struggling  to  do  what  other  poets  have  done,  as  the  lines 
'  To  Hope  '  and  the  '  Ode '  and  '  Hymn  to  Apollo.'  The  lines  '  To  Hope,'  with  all 
their  formal  use  of  poetic  conventions,  have  an  interest  from  the  attempt  he  makes 
at  using  the  instrument  he  most  highly  valued  in  expressing  his  own  moods  and  that 
youthful  fervor  which  found  a  suburban  Hampden  in  Leigh  Hunt.  His  friendship 
with  Hunt  was  in  part  founded  on  an  admiration  for  the  political  hissing  which 
Hunt  and  his  friends  kept  up,  and  which  was  translated  by  his  own  independence 
of  spirit  into  a  valiant  revolutionary  sound,  but  more  on  an  appreciation  of  Hunt's 
good  taste  in  literature,  his  enjoyment  of  the  Elizabethans  and  Milton,  and  his 
literary  temper.  Hunt  was  more  of  a  public  figure  than  Clarke  or  Reynolds, 
James  Rice,  Mathew,  or  any  other  of  Keats's  chosen  companions,  but  the  basis  of 
Keats's  friendship,  apart  from  his  brothers,  was  a  community  of  literary  taste 
more  even  than  of  literary  production.  It  is  a  pleasure  to  get  such  glimpses  as 
we  do  of  this  coterie  exchanging  books,  revelling  in  their  discovery  of  great  authors 
who  had  been  wrapped  in  the  cerecloth  of  an  antique  speech,  and  celebrating  their 
own  admiration  of  these  bards  that  'gild  the  lapses  of  time.'  It  was  not  the 
Examiner  that  filled  Keats's  mind,  it  was  Spenser  and  Milton,  Chapman  and 
Chaucer,  and  when  he  came  away  from  Hunt's  cottage,  *  brimful  of  the  friendli- 
ness '  he  there  had  found,  it  was  of  Lycidas  and  Petrarch  and  Laura  that  he  sang 
as  he  fared  on  foot  in  the  cool  bleak  air.  In  his  'Epistle  to  George  Felton 
Mathew,'  it  is  poetry  and  the  brotherhood  which  springs  from  poetry  that  prompt 
the  expression  of  friendship,  and  there  is  no  prettier  tale  in  literary  friendship 
than  that  which  shows  Keats  and  Clarke  sitting  up  through  the  night  reading 
Chapman's  Homer,  and  Keats  in  the  morning  sending  his  friend  the  well-turned 
sonnet  which  has  been  the  key  that  unlocks  Chapman  to  many  readers. 

These  early  verses  thus  are  full  of  Keats's  personal  history,  for  he  was  living  in 
the  land  of  fancy  and  was  rejoicing  in  the  companionship  of  lovers  of  that  land ; 
but  they  are  also  witnesses  to  the  feeling  which  he  had  for  nature.  It  is  true  the 
flinging  of  himself  on  the  grass,  after  being  pent  up  in  the  city,  is  to  read  some 
'  debonair  and  gentle  tale  of  love  and  languishment,'  and  a  fair  summer's  eve 
suggests  thoughts  of  Milton's  fate  and  Sydney's  bier ;  nevertheless,  these  expres- 
sions occur  in  the  constricted  sonnet.  When  Keats  allows  himself  freedom  and 
the  rush  of  spontaneous  emotion,  as  in  the  lines  '  I  stood  tiptoe  upon  a  little  hill,' 
khe  reflection  of  nature  in  mythology  and  poetry  is  merely  incidental  to  the  joyous 


BIOGRAPHICAL    SKETCH  xix 

delight  in  nature  itself,  a  delight  so  genuine  that  it  almost  covers  from  sight  the 
half  formal,  half  negligent  beadroll  of  poetic  subjects.  Keats  was  born  almost 
within  sound  of  Bowbells,  but  his  school  days  and  early  youth  were  spent  in  the 
rural  environs  of  Enfield  and  Edmonton,  and  he  escaped  often  from  the  city  to 
Hampstead,  not  merely  for  companionship,  but  because  there  the  nightingale  sang, 
and  there  the  walk  in  the  woods  or  the  stroll  on  the  heath  brought  him  face  to 
face  with  the  solitude  which  yielded  indeed  in  his  mind  to  pleasant  converse,  yet 
was,  as  he  knew  well,  the  direct  road  to  converse  with  nature.  Perhaps,  in  the 
lines,  '  I  stood  tiptoe,'  it  is  the  close  and  loving  observation  of  nature  which  first 
arrests  one's  attention,  but  a  nearer  scrutiny  quickly  reveals  that  imaginative  ren- 
dering which  lifts  these  lines  far  above  the  level  of  descriptive  poetry.  If  in  some 
of  Wordsworth's  sketches  from  nature  written  when  he  was  of  the  same  age  one 
descries  a  profounder  consciousness  of  human  personality  and  a  deeper  sense  of 
elemental  relations,  one  is  aware  also  of  longer  stretches  of  purely  descriptive 
verse ;  with  Keats  there  is  an  instant  alchemy  by  which  all  sights  and  sounds  are 
transmuted  into  the  elements  of  a  poetic  world. 

As  this  poem  goes  on  it  trembles  into  a  half  dreamy  rapture  of  the  poet  away 
from  all  scenes  into  the  world  of  visions,  but  it  is  in  *  Sleep  and  Poetry,'  written 
apparently  at  about  the  same  time,  that  we  discover  a  more  precise  witness  to  the 
poetic  ideals  now  well  formed  in  Keats's  mind.  The  poet  placed  this  piece  last  in 
his  first  printed  volume,  as  if  he  intended  to  make  it  his  personal  apology.  It  is  in 
part  an  impassioned  plea  for  the  freedom  of  imagination  as  against  the  artifices  of 
the  school  of  Pope,  but  even  when  thus  half  formally  reciting  his  creed,  Keats 
shows  how  little  of  the  dogmatist  there  was  in  his  nature,  how  little  even  of  the 
critic,  by  the  careless  wandering  of  his  own  poem,  and  the  unconscious  expression 
of  his  own  delight  in  everything  that  is  beautiful  in  nature  or  art ;  so  that  as  he 
writes  his  eye  takes  in  the  walls  of  the  room  where  he  lies,  and  he  falls  to  versify- 
ing its  contents.  He  thrills  with  the  consciousness  of  being  a  poet,  and  flushes 
over  the  prospect  of  what  he  may  do,  yet  at  present  what  he  does  is  rather  the 
overflow  of  a  poetic  nature  than  the  studied  product  of  an  artist. 

The  poems  which  precede  '  Endymion '  are  many  of  them  chiefly  interesting  for 
the  hints  they  give  thus  of  a  nature  which  was  gathering  itself  for  a  large  leap. 
They  are,  as  the  reader  will  see,  tentative  excursions  into  the  airy  region,  and  they 
contain  besides  little  witnesses  to  some  of  the  important  compelling  influences  which 
were  forming  Keats's  mind.  Thus  the  sonnets  to  Haydon  illustrate  Keats's  recog- 
nition of  Wordsworth,  and  also  the  great  impression  made  upon  him  by  the  intro- 
duction which  Haydon  gave  him  to  Greek  art.  They  bear  evidence,  too,  of  his 
increasing  study  of  Shakespeare  and  of  his  admiration  for  Milton,  whose  minor 
poems  seem  at  this  time  to  have  exercised  much  influence  over  his  style.  Hunt's 
influence  can  be  seen  in  the  poems,  but  more  indirectly  than  directly,  for  Hunt 
with  his  fine  taste  had  done  much  to  open  the  way  to  a  return  of  lovers  of  poetry 
to  the  spacious  days  of  Elizabeth.  The  poems  are  sometimes  exercises,  sometimes 
illuminations  of  a  poetic  mind,  and  they  have  a  rare  value  to  the  student  of  poetry, 


xx  JOHN    KEATS 


as  they  disclose  the  mingling  of  great  poetic  traditions  with  the  bursts  of  a  poetic 
nature  which  was  itself  to  add  to  the  stock  of  great  English  verse. 

There  was  about  a  year's  space  between  Keats's  abandonment  of  his  profession 
and  his  occupation  upon  a  long  and  serious  poem.  The  group  in  this  volume  enti- 
tled '  Early  Poems '  gives  the  product  of  that  period.  That  is,  the  pieces  from  '  I 
stood  tiptoe  upon  a  little  hill '  to  the  end  of  the  section  may  be  referred  to  this 
time,  and  the  first  one  may  fairly  be  taken  as  a  sort  of  prologue  to  his  adoption  of 
a  poetical  life.  When  he  was  writing  these  poems  he  was  living  much  with  his 
brothers,  to  whom  he  was  warmly  attached,  and  was  in  a  circle  of  ardent  friends, 
men  and  women.  He  was  an  animated  talker,  with  bursts  of  indignation,  and  a 
prey  somewhat  to  moods  of  depression.  His  appearance  has  been  described  by 
many,  and  is  thus  summed  up  by  Mr.  Colvin :  l  '  A  small,  handsome,  ardent-looking 
youth  —  the  stature  little  over  five  feet ;  the  figure  compact  and  well  turned,  with 
the  neck  thrust  eagerly  forward,  carrying  a  strong  and  shapely  head  set  off  by 
thickly  clustering  gold-brown  hair  ;  the  features  powerful,  finished,  and  mobile  ;  the 
mouth  rich  and  wide,  with  an  expression  at  once  combative  and  sensitive  in  the 
extreme  ;  the  forehead  not  high,  but  broad  and  strong ;  the  eyebrows  nobly  arched, 
and  eyes  hazel-brown,  liquid-flashing,  visibly  inspired  —  "an  eye  that  had  an  in- 
ward look,  perfectly  divine,  like  a  Delphian  priestess  who  saw  visions."  ' 

Keats  was  in  London  and  its  neighborhood  during  most  of  this  year,  but  after 
the  publication  of  his  first  volume  of  poems  he  went  to  the  Isle  of  Wight  and  later 
to  the  seashore,  and  soon  began  to  occupy  himself  with  his  serious  labor  of 
'  Endymion.'  While  he  was  working  upon  this  poem  he  wrote  but  few  verses.  His 
letters,  however,  show  him  immersed  in  literature  and  the  friendships  which  with 
him  were  so  identified  with  literature,  and  kept,  moreover,  in  a  state  of  restless- 
ness by  what  in  homely  phrase  may  be  termed  the  growing  pains  of  his  poetic 
nature.  <  I  went  to  the  Isle  of  Wight/  he  writes  to  Leigh  Hunt,  May  10,  1817, 
*  thought  so  much  about  poetry,  so  long  together,  that  I  could  not  get  to  sleep  at 
night ;  and,  moreover,  I  know  not  how  it  was,  I  could  not  get  wholesome  food. 
By  this  means,  in  a  week  or  so,  I  became  not  over  capable  in  my  upper  stories, 
and  set  off  pell  mell  for  Margate,  at  least  a  hundred  and  fifty  miles,  because, 
forsooth,  I  fancied  that  I  should  like  my  old  lodging  here,  and  could  contrive  to 
do  without  trees.  Another  thing,  I  was  too  much  in  solitude  and  consequently  was 
obliged  to  be  in  continual  burning  of  thought,  as  an  only  recourse.  However,  Tom 
is  with  me  at  present,  and  we  are  very  comfortable.  .  .  .  These  last  two  days  I 
have  felt  more  confident.  I  have  asked  myself  so  often  why  I  should  be  a  poet 
more  than  other  men,  seeing  how  great  a  thing  it  is,  —  how  great  things  are  to  be 
gained  by  it,  what  a  thing  to  be  in  the  mouth  of  Fame,  —  that  at  last  the  idea  has 
grown  so  monstrously  beyond  my  seeming  power  of  attainment,  that  the  other  day 
I  nearly  consented  with  myself  to  drop  into  a  Phaethon.  Yet  't  is  a  disgrace  to 
fail,  even  in  a  huge  attempt ;  and  at  this  moment  I  drive  the  thought  from  me.' 

These  lines  were  written  when  Keats  was  deep  in  *  Endymion,'  and  with  others 
1  Keats  [Men  of  Letters  Series].  By  Sidney  Colvin. 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH  xxi 

they  intimate  with  some  clearness  how  seriously  Keats  took  himself,  as  the  saying 
is.  Much  reading  of  great  poetry  had  set  standards  for  him  rather  than  furnished 
models.  It  is  not  difficult  to  trace  Keats's  indebtedness  to  other  poets,  so  far  as 
words  and  turns  of  expression  go,  yet  his  confessed  imitations  show  almost  as  con- 
clusively as  his  original  verse  how  incapable  he  was  of  merely  reproducing  out  of 
the  quarries  of  other  poetry  his  own  fair  buildings.  His  was  a  nature  possessed 
of  poetic  power,  yet  fed  more  than  usual  by  great  poetry.  That  he  should  have 
gone  by  turns  to  ancient  mythology  and  mediaeval  romance  for  his  themes,  and 
have  treated  both  in  a  spirit  of  romance,  was  due  to  a  large  artistic  endowment, 
which  bade  him  see  both  nature  and  humanity  as  subjects  for  composition,  furnish- 
ing images  to  be  delighted  in.  He  was  conscious  of  poetic  genius,  and  never  more 
so  than  when  reading  great  poetry.  In  the  presence  of  Shakespeare  and  Spenser 
he  could  exclaim,  '  I  too  am  a  poet,'  and  this  was  no  mere  excitement  such  as 
hurries  lesser  men  into  clever  copying,  but  an  exhilaration  which  sent  his  pulses 
bounding  as  his  own  conceptions  rose  fair  to  view.  It  was  obedience  to  this 
strong  impulse  to  produce  a  great  work  of  art  which  led  him  to  sketch  *  Endymion ' 
and  try  his  powers  upon  an  attack  on  the  very  citadel  of  poetic  beauty.  Fame 
waved  a  wreath  before  him,  yet  it  was  not  Fame  but  Poetry  that  really  urged  him 
forward.  It  is  not  unfair  to  translate  even  a  confession  of  desire  for  fame  into 
an  acknowledgment  of  conscious  power. 

*  Endymion '  was  published  in  the  spring  of  1818,  and  Keats's  own  attitude  to- 
ward his  work  at  this  time  is  well  expressed  in  the  sonnet  '  When  I  have  fears  that 
I  may  cease  to  be,'  and  in  that  written  on  sitting  down  to  read  King  Lear  once 
again.  The  very  completion  of  his  task  set  free  new  fancies,  and  there  is  a  spon- 
taneity in  his  occasional  verse  and  in  his  letters  which  witnesses  to  a  rapid  matur- 
ing of  power  and  a  firmness  of  tread.  The  interesting  letter  to  Reynolds  of  Feb- 
ruary 3,  1818,  which  contains  a  spirited  criticism  of  Wordsworth  and  holds  the 
Robin  Hood  verses,  is  quick  with  gay  strength,  and  shows  the  poet  alert  and  sane. 

The  publication  of  *  Endymion '  was  an  important  event  to  Keats  and  his  circle. 
His  earlier  volume,  the  verses  which  he  had  since  written  and  shown,  and  his  own 
personality,  had  raised  great  expectations  among  his  near  friends  and  the  few  who 
could  discern  poetry  without  waiting  for  the  poet  to  be  famous ;  and  now  he  was 
staking  all,  as  it  were,  upon  this  single  throw.  The  book  was  coarsely  and  roughly 
handled  by  the  two  leading  reviews  of  the  day,  BlackwoocTs  and  the  Quarterly. 
Criticism  in  those  days  was  far  from  impersonal.  A  poet  was  condemned  or 
praised,  not  for  his  work,  but  for  his  politics,  the  friends  he  associated  with,  his 
religion,  and  anything  in  his  private  life  which  might  be  known  to  the  reviewer. 
Keats  knew  the  worthlessness  of  much  of  this  criticism,  but  he  felt  nevertheless 
keenly  the  hostility  of  what,  rightly  or  wrongly,  was  looked  upon  as  the  supreme 
court  in  the  republic  of  letters. 

Under  other  circumstances  he  might  have  felt  this  even  more  keenly  %  and  there 
appears  to  be  evidence  that  he  recurred  afterward  with  bitterness  to  the  attitude 
of  the  reviews ;  but  just  at  this  time  other  matters  filled  his  mind.  His  brother, 


xxii  JOHN   KEATS 


George  Keats,  with  his  wife,  went  to  America  to  try  fortune  in  the  new  world,  and 
Keats  immediately  afterward  took  a  long  walking  tour  in  the  north  with  his  friend 
Brown.  His  letters  and  the  few  poems  of  travel  he  wrote  show  how  ardently  he 
threw  himself  into  this  acquaintance  with  a  new  phase  of  nature.  But  he  was  to 
pass  through  experiences  which  entered  more  profoundly  into  life.  In  December 
of  the  same  year,  1818,  his  brother  Tom  died.  He  had  been  his  constant  com- 
panion and  nurse,  and  was  with  him  at  his  death.  Then,  when  his  whole  nature 
was  deeply  stirred,  he  came  to  know  and  ardently  to  love  a  girl  who  by  turns  fas- 
cinated and  repelled  him,  until  he  was  completely  enthralled,  without  apparently 
finding  in  her  the  repose  which  his  restless  nature  needed. 

Keats's  first  mention  of  Fanny  Brawne  scarcely  prepares  one  for  the  inroads 
made  upon  him  by  this  personage  during  the  rest  of  his  short  life.  He  went  to 
live  with  his  friend  Brown  after  Tom's  death,  and  Mrs.  Brawne  became  his  next- 
door  neighbor.  '  She  is  a  very  nice  woman,'  he  writes,  '  and  her  daughter  senior 
is  I  think  beautiful  and  elegant,  graceful,  silly,  fashionable  and  strange.  We 
have  a  little  tiff  now  and  then  —  and  she  behaves  a  little  better,  or  I  must  have 
sheered  off.'  The  passion  which  he  conceived  for  Miss  Brawne  rapidly  mounted 
into  a  dominant  place,  and  it  is  one  of  the  marks  of  Keats's  deeper  nature,  not 
disclosed  to  his  friends,  intimate  as  he  was  with  them,  that  for  the  two  years  which 
intervened  before  he  left  England  a  dying  man,  he  carried  this  passion  as  a  sort  of 
vulture  gnawing  at  his  vitals,  concealed  for  the  most  part,  though  not  wholly. 
Some  overt  expression  it  found,  as  in  the  '  Ode  to  Fanny,'  the  '  Lines  to  Fanny,' 
and  the  verses  addressed  to  the  same  person  beginning :  — 

'  I  cry  your  pity  —  mercy  —  love,  ay  love,' 

and  it  may  be  traced,  with  little  doubt,  in  those  poems  which  emphasize  his  moods, 
such  as  the  '  Ode  to  Melancholy  '  and  the  sonnet  beginning :  — 

'  Why  did  I  laugh  to-night  ?  ' 
and  that  also  beginning :  — 

'  The  day  is  gone,  and  all  its  sweets  are  gone.' 

The  letters  contain  infrequent  allusions,  except  of  course  the  posthumously  pub- 
lished letters  to  the  lady  herself. 

But  with  this  overmastering  passion  to  reckon  with,  the  student  of  Keats  can 
scarcely  avoid  regarding  it  as  strongly  influencing  the  poet's  career  during  his 
remaining  days.  The  turbulent  experience  of  death  and  love  acted  upon  a  physical 
organism  predisposed  to  decay,  and  soon  it  was  apparent  that  Keats  was  himself 
invaded  by  the  disease  of  consumption,  which  had  wasted  his  brother  Tom.  But 
before  this  ravaging  of  his  powers  set  in,  that  is,  during  the  first  half  of  1819,  when 
he  was  at  once  deepened  by  sorrow  and  excited  by  love,  he  wrote  that  great  group 
of  poems  which  begins  with  i  The  Eve  of  St.  Agnes '  and  closes  with  '  Lamia/ 
If  one  takes  as  in  some  respects  the  high-water  mark  of  his  genius  the  mystic  '  La 
Belle  Dame  sans  merci,'  it  is  not  perhaps  too  speculative  a  judgment  which  sees 
the  keenest  anguish  of  a  passionate  soul  transmuted  into  terms  of  impersonal 


BIOGRAPHICAL    SKETCH  xxiii 

poesy.  There  is  no  hectic  flush  about  the  poetry  of  this  half  year,  but  an  increas- 
ing firmness  of  touch  and  rich,  yet  reserved  imagination. 

But  great  as  his  products  were,  he  had  not  found  his  public,  and  the  little 
property  he  had  was  slipping  away,  so  that  he  was  confronted  by  the  fear  of  pov- 
erty as  his  weakness  grew  upon  him.  Nothing  seemed  to  go  well  with  him ;  his 
love  affair  brought  him  little  else  than  exquisite  pain.  It  is  probable  that  on 
Keats's  side  the  pride  which  was  so  dominant  a  chord  in  his  nature  forbade  a  man 
who  could  scarce  support  himself  and  felt  the  damp  dews  of  decline  chilling  his 
vitality  from  seeking  refuge  in  marriage  with  a  girl  who  was  in  happier  circum- 
stance than  he.  He  tried  to  turn  his  gifts  into  money  by  aiming  at  fortune  with 
a  play  for  the  popular  stage.  He  tried  his  hand  at  work  for  the  periodicals.  He 
even  considered  the  possibility  of  returning  to  his  profession  of  surgery  for  a  liveli- 
hood. But  all  these  projects  failed  him,  and  he  turned  with  an  almost  savage  and 
certainly  sardonic  humor  to  a  scheme  for  flinging  at  the  head  of  the  public  a  popular 
poem.  *  The  Cap  and  Bells '  is  a  melancholy  example  of  what  a  great  poet  can 
produce  who  is  consumed  by  a  hopeless  passion  and  wasted  by  disease. 

Keats  clung  to  his  friends  and  wrote  affectionate  letters  to  his  family.  His 
brother  George  came  over  from  America  on  a  brief  business  visit,  and  was  dis- 
turbed to  find  John  so  altered ;  and  scarcely  had  George  returned  in  January, 
1820,  than  the  poet  had  a  sharp  attack  with  loss  of  blood.  He  rallied  as  the 
spring  came  on,  and  early  in  the  summer  saw  to  the  publication  of  his  last  volume, 
containing  '  Hyperion,  Isabella,  The  Eve  of  St.  Agnes,  Lamia,'  and  the  '  Odes,'  per- 
haps the  most  precious  cargo  carried  in  a  vessel  of  this  size  in  English  literature  in 
this  century. 

A  month  after  the  publication  of  the  volume  he  was  writing  to  Shelley,  who  had 
sent  him  an  invitation  to  visit  him  in  Pisa :  '  There  is  no  doubt  that  an  English 
winter  would  put  an  end  to  me,  and  do  so  in  a  lingering,  hateful  manner.  There- 
fore, I  must  either  voyage  or  journey  to  Italy,  as  a  soldier  marches  up  to  a  battery.' 
In  September  he  put  himself  into  the  hands  of  his  cheerful  and  steadfast  friend 
Severn  the  artist,  and  they  took  passage  for  Naples.  It  was  when  they  were 
detained  by  winds  off  the  coast  of  England  that  Keats  wrote  his  last  sonnet,  with 
its  veiled  homage  to  Fanny  Brawne,  and  in  Naples  Harbor  he  wrote  to  Mrs. 
Brawne  in  a  feverish  mood :  4 1  dare  not  fix  my  mind  upon  Fanny,  I  have  not 
dared  to  think  of  her.  The  only  comfort  I  have  had  that  way  has  been  in  think- 
ing for  hours  together  of  having  the  knife  she  gave  me  put  in  a  silver  case  — 
the  hair  in  a  locket  —  and  the  pocket-book  in  a  gold  net.  Show  her  this.  I  dare 
say  no  more.'  And  then  there  is  the  letter  to  Brown,  with  its  agony  of  separation, 
in  which  he  gives  way  to  the  torment  of  his  love,  with  despair  written  in  every  line. 
It  is  difficult  to  say  as  one  thinks  of  Keats's  ashes  whether  the  fire  of  passion  or 
the  fire  of  physical  consumption  had  most  to  do  with  causing  them. 

It  was  in  November,  1820,  that  the  travellers  reached  Rome,  and  for  a  little 
while  Keats  could  take  short  strolls  on  the  Pincian  Hill ;  but  the  fatal  disease  was 
making  rapid  progress,  and  on  the  22d  of  February,  1821,  he  died,  and  three  days 


xxiv  JOHN    KEATS 


later  he  was  buried  in  the  Protestant  cemetery,  where  upon  his  gravestone  may 
be  read  the  words  which  Keats  had  said  of  himself :  — 

'  Here  lies  one  whose  name  was  writ  in  water.' 

In  his  first  sonnet  on  Fame,  Keats,  in  a  saner  mood,  puts  by  the  temptation 
which  would  withdraw  him  from  the  high  serenity  of  conscious  worth.  In  the 
second,  wherein  he  seems  almost  to  be  seeing  Fanny  Brawne  mocking  behind  the 
figure  of  Fame,  he  shows  a  more  scornful  attitude.  There  is  little  doubt  that  not- 
withstanding his  close  companionship  with  poets  living  and  dead  Keats  never  could 
long  escape  from  the  allurements  of  this  *  wayward  girl,'  yet  it  may  surely  be  said 
that  his  escape  was  most  complete  when  he  was  fulfilling  the  highest  law  of  his 
nature  and  creating  those  images  of  beauty  which  have  given  him  Fame  while  he 
sleeps. 

H.  E.  S. 


POEMS 


EARLY  POEMS 


IN  this  group  are  included  the  contents 
of  the  volume  Poems  by  John  Keats,  pub- 
lished in  March,  1817,  as  well  as  certain 


poems  composed  before  the  publication  of 
Endymion.  The  order  followed  is  as  nearly 
chronological  as  the  evidence  permits. 


IMITATION   OF    SPENSER 

Lord  Houghton  states,  on  the  authority  of 
the  notes  of  Charles  Armitage  Brown,  given 
to  him  in  Florence  in  1832,  that  this  was  the 
earliest  known  composition  of  Keats,  and  that 
it  was  written  during  his  residence  in  Edmon- 
ton at  the  end  of  his  eighteenth  year,  which 
would  make  the  date  in  the  autumn  of  1813. 
The  poem  was  included  in  the  1817  volume, 
which  bore  on  its  title-page  this  motto :  — 

What  more  felicity  can  fall  to  creature 
Than  to  enjoy  delight  with  liberty  ? 

Fate  of  the  Butterfly.  —  SPKNSBE. 

Now  Morning  from  her  orient  chamber 

came, 
And  her  first  footsteps  touch'd  a  verdant 

hill; 
Crowning   its   lawny   crest  with   amber 

flame, 

Silv'ring  the  untainted  gushes  of  its  rill; 
Which,  pure  from  mossy  beds,  did  down 

distil, 

And  after  parting  beds  of  simple  flowers, 
By  many  streams  a  little  lake  did  fill, 
Which  round  its  marge  reflected  woven 

bowers, 
And,  in  its  middle  space,  a  sky  that  never 

lowers. 

There   the  kingfisher  saw  his  plumage 

bright, 

Vying  with  fish  of  brilliant  dye  below; 
Whose  silken  fins,  and  golden  scales'  light 
Cast  upward,  through  the  waves,  a  ruby 

glow: 
There  saw  the  swan  his  neck  of  arched 


And  oar'd  himself  along  with  majesty; 
Sparkled  his  jetty  eyes;  his  feet  did  show 
Beneath  the  waves  like  Afric's  ebony, 
And  on  his  back  a  fay  reclined  voluptuously. 

Ah  !  could  I  tell  the  wonders  of  an  isle 
That  in  that  fairest  lake  had  placed  been, 
I  could  e'en  Dido  of  her  grief  beguile; 
Or  rob  from  aged  Lear  his  bitter  teen: 
For  sure  so  fair  a  place  was  never  seen, 
Of  all  that  ever  charm'd  romantic  eye : 
It  seem'd  an  emerald  in  the  silver  sheen 
Of  the  bright  waters;  or  as  when  on  high, 
Through  clouds  of  fleecy  white,  laughs  the 
ccerulean  sky. 

And  all  around  it  dipp'd  luxuriously 
Slopings  of  verdure  through  the  glossy 

tide, 

Which,  as  it  were  in  gentle  amity, 
Rippled  delighted  up  the  flowery  side; 
As  if  to  glean  the  ruddy  tears,  it  tried, 
Which  fell  profusely  from  the  rose-tree 

stem  ! 

Haply  it  was  the  workings  of  its  pride, 
In  strife  to  tnrow  upon  the  shore  a  gem 
Outvying  all  the  buds  in  Flora's  diadem. 


ON    DEATH 

Assigned  by  George  Keats  to  the  year  1814, 
and  first  printed  in  Forman's  edition,  1883. 

CAN  death  be  sleep,  when  life  is  but  a 

dream, 
And  scenes  of  bliss  pass  as  a  phantom  by  ? 


EARLY   POEMS 


The  transient  pleasures  as  a  vision  seem, 
And  yet  we  think  the  greatest  pain 's  to 
die. 

How  strange  it  is  that  man  on  earth  should 
roam, 

And  lead  a  life  of  woe,  but  not  forsake 
His  rugged  path;  nor  dare  he  view  alone 

His  future  doom,  which  is  but  to  awake. 


TO    CHATTERTON 

First  printed  in  Life,  Letters,  and  Literary 
Remains,  but  undated.  Keats' s  admiration  of 
Chatterton  was  early  and  constant. 

0  CHATTERTON  !  how  very  sad  thy  fate  ! 
Dear  child  of  sorrow  —  son  of  misery  ! 
How  soon  the  film  of  death  obscur'd  that 

eye, 
Whence   Genius  mildly  flash'd,  and   high 

debate. 

How  soon  that  voice,  majestic  and  elate, 
Melted  in  dying  numbers  !      Oh  !  how 

nigh 
Was  night  to  thy  fair  morning.      Thou 

didst  die 
A  half-blown   flow'ret   which   cold   blasts 

amate. 

But  this  is  past:  thou  art  among  the  stars 
Of  highest  Heaven:  to  the  rolling  spheres 
Thou  sweetly  singest:  nought  thy  hymning 

mars, 
Above   the   ingrate    world    and    human 

fears. 
On  earth  the   good   man   base   detraction 

bars 

From  thy  fair  name,  and  waters  it  with 
tears. 


TO    BYRON 

The  date  of  December,  1814,  is  given  to  this 
sonnet  by  Lord  Houghton  in  Life,  Letters,  and 
Literary  Remains,  where  it  was  first  published. 

BYRON  !  how  sweetly  sad  thy  melody  ! 
Attuning  still  the  soul  to  tenderness, 


As  if  soft  Pity,  with  unusual  stress, 
Had  touch'd  her  plaintive  lute,  and  thou, 

being  by, 
Hadst  caught  the  tones,  nor  suffer'd  them 

to  die. 
O'ershadowing   sorrow   doth    not   make 

thee  less 

Delightful:  thou  thy  griefs  dost  dress 
With  a  bright  halo,  shining  beamily, 
As  when  a  cloud  the  golden  moon  doth  veil, 
Its  sides  are  ting'd  with  a  resplendent 

glow, 

Through  the  dark  robe  oft  amber  rays  pre- 
vail, 

And  like  fair  veins  in  sable  marble  flow; 

Still  warble,  dying  swan  !  still  tell  the  tale, 

The  enchanting  tale,  the  tale  of  pleasing 


'  WOMAN!    WHEN    I    BEHOLD 
THEE   FLIPPANT,  VAIN' 

In  the  1817  volume,  where  this  poem  was 
first  published,  with  no  title,  it  is  placed  at 
the  end  of  a  group  of  poems  which  are  thus 
advertised  on  the  leaf  containing  the  dedica- 
tion :  '  The  Short  Pieces  in  the  middle  of  the 
Book  as  well  as  some  of  the  Sonnets,  were 
written  at  an  earlier  period  than  the  rest  of 
the  Poems. '  In  the  absence  of  any  documen- 
tary evidence,  it  seems  reasonable  to  place  it 
near  the  'Imitation  of  Spenser'  rather  than 
near  '  Calidore.' 

WOMAN  !  when  I  behold  thee  flippant,  vain, 
Inconstant,  childish,  proud,  and  full  of 

fancies; 

Without  that  modest  softening  that  en- 
hances 

The  downcast  eye,  repentant  of  the  pain 
That  its  mild  light  creates  to  heal  again: 
E'en   then,  elate,   my   spirit   leaps,  and 

prances, 

E'en  then  my  soul  with  exultation  dances 
For  that  to  love,  so  long,  I  've  dormant 

lain: 

But  when  I  see  thee  meek,  and  kind,  and 
tender, 


TO    SOME   LADIES 


Heavens  !  how  desperately  do  I  adore 
Thy  winning  graces ;  —  to  be  thy  defender 

I  hotly  burn  —  to  be  a  Calidore  — 
A  very  Red  Cross  Knight  —  a  stout  Le- 

ander  — 

Might  I  be  loved  by  thee  like  these  of 
yore. 

Light   feet,  dark  violet  eyes,  and  parted 

hair; 
Soft   dimpled   hands,   white    neck,   and 

creamy  breast, 
Are  things  on  which  the  dazzled  senses 

rest 

Till  the  fond,  fixed  eyes,  forget  they  stare. 
From  such  fine  pictures,  heavens  !    I  cannot 

dare 
To  turn  my  admiration,  though  unpos- 

sess'd 
They  be  of  what  is  worthy,  —  though  not 

drest 

In  lovely  modesty,  and  virtues  rare. 
Yet  these  I  leave  as  thoughtless  as  a  lark; 
These  lures  I  straight  forget,  —  e'en  ere 

I  dine, 
Or  thrice  my  palate  moisten:  but  when  I 

mark 
Such    charms    with    mild    intelligences 

shine, 

My  ear  is  open  like  a  greedy  shark, 
To  catch  the  tunings  of  a  voice  divine. 

Ah  !  who  can  e'er  forget  so  fair  a  being  ? 
Who  can  forget  her  half-retiring  sweets  ? 
God  !  she  is  like  a  milk-white  lamb  that 

bleats 

For  man's  protection.     Surely  the  All-see- 
ing* 

Who  joys  to  see  us  with  his  gifts  agree- 
ing* 

Will  never  give  him  pinions,  who  intreats 
Such   innocence    to   ruin,  —  who   vilely 

cheats 
A  dove-like  bosom.     In  truth  there  is  no 

freeing 
One's  thoughts  from  such  a  beauty;  when 

I  hear 
A  lay  that  once  I  saw  her  hand  awake, 


Her  form  seems  floating  palpable,  and  near; 

Had  I  e'er  seen  her  from  an  arbour  take 
A  dewy  flower,  oft  would  that  hand  appear, 

And  o'er  my  eyes  the  trembling  moisture 
shake. 


TO    SOME    LADIES 

This  and  the  poem  following  were  included 
in  the  1817  volume.  George  Keats  says  fur- 
ther that  it  was  '  written  on  receiving  a  copy 
of  Tom  Moore's  "  Golden  Chain  "  and  a  most 
beautiful  Dome  shaped  shell  from  a  Lady.' 
The  exact  title  of  Moore's  poem  is  'The 
Wreath  and  the  Chain,'  and  it  will  be  readily 
seen  how  expressly  imitative  these  lines  are  of 
Moore's  verse  in  general.  The  poems  are  not 
dated,  but  they  are  the  first  in  a  group  stated 
by  Keats  to  have  been  '  written  at  an  earlier 
period  than  the  rest  of  the  Poems ;'  it  is  safe  to 
assume  that  they  belong  very  near  the  begin- 
ning of  Keats's  poetical  career.  It  is  quite 
likely  that  they  were  included  in  the  volume  a 
few  years  later  on  personal  grounds. 

WHAT  though  while  the  wonders  of  nature 

exploring, 

I  cannot  your  light,  mazy  footsteps  at- 
tend; 

Nor  listen  to  accents,  that  almost  adoring, 
Bless    Cynthia's    face,   the    enthusiast's 
friend: 

Yet  over  the  steep,  whence  the  mountain- 
stream  rushes, 

With  you,  kindest  friends,  in  idea  I  rove ; 
M,ark  the  clear  tumbling  crystal,  its  pas- 
sionate gushes, 

Its  spray  that   the   wild   flower   kindly 
bedews. 

Why   linger  you    so,   the    wild   labyrinth 

strolling  ? 

Why  breathless,  unable  your  bliss  to  de- 
clare ? 
Ah !    you  list   to  the  nightingale's  tender 

condoling, 

Responsive  to  sylphs,  in  the  moon-beamy 
air. 


EARLY   POEMS 


'Tis  morn,  and  the  flowers  with  dew  are 

yet  drooping, 
I  see  you  are  treading  the  verge  of  the 

sea: 
And  now  !  ah,  I  see  it  —  you  just  now  are 

stooping 
To  pick  up  the  keepsake  intended  for  me. 

If  a  cherub,  on  pinions  of  silver  descending, 
Had  brought  me  a  gem  from  the  fret- 
work of  heaven; 
And   smiles,  with   his  star-cheering  voice 

sweetly  blending, 

The  blessings  of  Tighe  had  melodiously 
given; 

It  had  not  created  a  warmer  emotion 
Than  the  present,  fair   nymphs,  I  was 

blest  with  from  you; 
Than   the   shell,  from  the   bright   golden 

sands  of  the  ocean, 

Which  the  emerald  waves  at  your  feet 
gladly  threw. 

For,  indeed,  't  is  a  sweet  and  peculiar  plea- 
sure, 
(And  blissful  is  he  who  such  happiness 

finds,) 

To  possess  but  a  span  of  the  hour  of  leisure, 
In  elegant,  pure,  and  aerial  minds. 


ON  RECEIVING  A  CURIOUS 
SHELL  AND  A  COPY  OF 
VERSES  FROM  THE  SAME 
LADIES 

HAST  thou  from  the  caves  of  Golconda,  a 

gem 
Pure  as  the  ice-drop  that  froze  on  the 

mountain  ? 

Bright  as  the  humming-bird's  green  diadem, 
When  it  flutters  in  sunbeams  that  shine 
through  a  fountain  ? 

Hast  thou  a  goblet  for  dark  sparkling  wine  ? 
That  goblet  right  heavy,  and  massy,  and 
gold? 


And  splendidly  mark'd  with  the  story  di- 
vine 

Of  Armida   the   fair,  and  Rinaldo   the 
bold? 

Hast  thou  a  steed  with  a  mane  richly  flow- 
ing? 
Hast  thou  a  sword    that  thine  enemy's 

smart  is  ? 

Hast  thou  a  trumpet  rich  melodies  blowing  ? 
And  wear'st  thou  the  shield  of  the  fam'd 
Britomartis  ? 

What  is  it  that  hangs  from  thy  shoulder, 

so  brave, 
Embroidered  with  many  a  spring  peering 

flower  ? 

Is  it  a  scarf  that  thy  fair  lady  gave  ? 
And  has  test  thou  now  to  that  fair  lady's 
bower  ? 

Ah  !  courteous  Sir  Knight,  with  large  joy 

thou  art  crown 'd; 
Full  many  the  glories  that  brighten  thy 

youth ! 
I  will  tell  thee   my  blisses,   which  richly 

abound 
In  magical  powers  to  bless,  and  to  soothe. 

On  this  scroll  thou  seest  written  in  charac- 
ters fair 
A    sun-beamy    tale  of  a  wreath,  and  a 

chain: 

And,  warrior,  it  nurtures  the  property  rare 
Of  charming  my  mind  from  the  trammels 
of  pain. 

This  canopy  mark:  'tis  the  work  of  a  fay; 
Beneath  its  rich  shade  did  King  Oberou 

languish, 

When  lovely  Titania  was  far,  far  away, 
And  cruelly  left  him  to  sorrow,  and  an- 
guish. 

There,  oft  would  he  bring  from  his  soft- 
sighing  lute 

Wild  strains  to  which,  spell-bound,  the 
nightingales  listen'd  ; 


TO   HOPE 


The   wondering    spirits   of    heaven    were 

mute, 

And  tears  'mong  the  dewdrops  of  morn- 
ing oft  glistened. 

In    this   little   dome,    all    those    melodies 

strange, 
Soft,  plaintive,  and  melting,  for  ever  will 

sigh; 

Nor  e'er  will  the  notes  from  their  tender- 
ness change ; 
Nor  e'er  will  the  music  of  Oberon  die. 

So,  when  I  am  in  a  voluptuous  vein, 

I  pillow  my  head  on  the  sweets  of  the 

rose, 
And  list  to  the  tale  of  the  wreath,  and  the 

chain, 

Till  its  echoes  depart;  then  I  sink  to  re- 
pose. 

Adieu,   valiant   Eric  !    with   joy   thou   art 

crown'd  ; 
Full  many  the  glories  that  brighten  thy 

youth, 

I  too  have  my  blisses,  which  richly  abound 
In  magical  powers,  to  bless  and  to  soothe. 


WRITTEN  ON  THE  DAY  THAT 
MR.  LEIGH  HUNT  LEFT 
PRISON 

Either  the  2d  or  3d  of  February,  1815. 
Charles  Cowden  Clarke,  to  whom  Keats 
showed  the  sonnet,  writes  in  his  recollections: 
'  This  I  feel  to  be  the  first  proof  I  had  re- 
ceived of  his  having  committed  himself  in 
verse  ;  and  how  clearly  do  I  recollect  the  con- 
scious look  and  hesitation  with  which  he  of- 
fered it !  There  are  some  momentary  glances 
by  beloved  friends  that  fade  only  with  life.' 
The  sonnet  was  printed  in  the  1817  volume. 

WHAT  though,  for  showing  truth  to  flat- 

ter'd  state, 
Kind  Hunt  was  shut  in  prison,  yet  has 

he. 
In  his  immortal  spirit,  been  as  free 


As  the  sky-searching  lark,  and  as  elate. 
Minion   of   grandeur  !    think   you   he   did 

wait? 
Think  you   he   nought  but  prison- walls 

did  see, 
Till,  so  unwilling,  thou  unturn'dst   the 

key? 

Ah,  no  !  far  happier,  nobler  was  his  fate  ! 
In  Spenser's  halls  he  strayed,  and  bowers 

fair, 

Culling  enchanted  flowers;  and  he  flew 
With  daring  Milton  through  the  fields  of 

air: 

To  regions  of  his  own  his  genius  true 
Took  happy  flights.     Who  shall  his  fame 

impair 

When  thou  art  dead,  and  all  thy  wretched 
crew? 


TO    HOPE 

Keats  dates  this  poem  in  the  volume  of  1817, 
February,  1815. 

WHEN  by  my  solitary  hearth  I  sit, 

And  hateful  thoughts  enwrap  my  soul  in 

gloom; 
When  no  fair  dreams  before  my  '  mind's 

eye'  flit, 
And  the  bare  heath  of  life  presents  no 

bloom; 
Sweet  Hope,  ethereal  balm  upon  me 

shed, 

And  wave  thy  silver  pinions  o'er  my 
head. 

Whene'er  I  wander,  at  the  fall  of  night, 
Where  woven  boughs  shut  out  the  moon's 

bright  ray, 
Should    sad     Despondency     my    musings 

fright, 
And  frown,  to  drive  fair  Cheerfulness 

away, 
Peep  with  the  moonbeams  through  the 

leafy  roof, 

And  keep  that  fiend  Despondence  far 
aloof. 


EARLY   POEMS 


Should  Disappointment,  parent  of  Despair, 
Strive  for  her  son  to  seize  my  careless 

heart; 

When,  like  a  cloud,  he  sits  upon  the  air, 
Preparing   on   his   spell-bound   prey   to 

dart: 
Chase   him   away,  sweet   Hope,  with 

visage  bright, 

And  fright  him  as  the  morning  fright- 
ens night ! 

Whene'er  the  fate  of  those  I  hold  most  dear 

Tells  to  my  fearful  breast  a  tale  of  sorrow, 

O   bright-eyed    Hope,    my   morbid   fancy 

cheer; 
Let   me   awhile   thy   sweetest   comforts 

borrow: 
Thy  heaven-born  radiance  around  me 

shed, 

And  wave  thy  silver  pinions  o'er  my 
head! 

Should  e'er  unhappy  love  my  bosom  pain, 
From  cruel  parents,  or  relentless  fair  ; 
O  let  me  think  it  is  not  quite  in  vain 
To  sigh  out  sonnets  to  the  midnight  air  ! 
Sweet  Hope,  ethereal  balm  upon  me 

shed, 

And  wave  thy  silver  pinions  o'er  my 
head. 

In  the  long  vista  of  the  years  to  roll, 

Let  me  not  see  our  country's  honour  fade : 
O  let  me  see  our  land  retain  her  soul, 
Her  pride,  her  freedom;  and  not  free- 
dom's shade. 

From  thy  bright  eyes  unusual  bright- 
ness shed  — 
Beneath  thy  pinions  canopy  my  head  ! 

Let  me  not  see  the  patriot's  high  bequest, 

Great  Liberty  !  how  great  in  plain  attire ! 
With  the  base  purple  of  a  court  oppress'd, 
Bowing  her  head,  and  ready  to  expire: 
But  let  me  see  thee  stoop   from    hea- 
ven on  wings 

That  fill  the  skies  with  silver  glitter- 
ings  ! 


And  as,  in  sparkling  majesty,  a  star 

Gilds  the  bright  summit  of  some  gloomy 

cloud ; 
Brightening  the  half  veil'd  face  of  heaven 

afar: 
So,  when  dark  thoughts  my  boding  spirit 

shroud, 
Sweet  Hope,  celestial  influence  round 

me  shed, 
Waving  thy  silver  pinions  o'er  my  head. 


ODE    TO    APOLLO 

The  Ode  and  the  Hymn  which  follows  were 
first  printed  by  Lord  Houghton  in  Life,  Letters 
and  Literary  Remains ;  the  former  is  there 
dated  February,  1815. 

IN  thy  western  halls  of  gold 

When  thou  sittest  in  thy  state, 
Bards,  that  erst  sublimely  told 

Heroic  deeds,  and  sang  of  fate, 
With    fervour    seize   their    adamantine 

lyres, 

Whose  chords  are  solid  rays,  and  twinkle 
radiant  fires. 

Here  Homer  with  his  nervous  arms 
Strikes  the  twanging  harp  of  war, 
And  even  the  western  splendour  warms, 

While  the  trumpets  sound  afar: 
But,  what  creates  the  most  intense  sur- 
prise, 
His  soul  looks  out  through  renovated  eyes. 

Then,  through  thy  Temple  wide,  melodi- 
ous swells 

The  sweet  majestic  tone  of  Maro's  lyre: 
The    soul     delighted    on    each    accent 

dwells,  — 

Enraptur'd  dwells,  —  not  daring  to  re- 
spire, 

The  while  he  tells  of  grief  around  a  funeral 
pyre. 

'T  is  awful  silence  then  again; 
Expectant  stand  the  spheres ; 
Breathless  the  laurell'd  peers, 


TO  A  YOUNG  LADY  WHO  SENT  ME  A  LAUREL  CROWN 


Nor  move,  till  ends  the  lofty  strain, 
Nor  move  till  Milton's  tuneful  thunders 

cease, 

And  leave  once  more  the  ravish'd  heavens 
in  peace. 

Thou  biddest  Shakspeare  wave  his  hand, 

And  quickly  forward  spring 
The  Passions  —  a  terrific  band  — 

And  each  vibrates  the  string 
That  with  its  tyrant  temper  best  accords, 
While  from  their  Master's  lips  pour  forth 
the  inspiring  words. 

A  silver  trumpet  Spenser  blows, 

And,  as  its  martial  notes  to  silence  flee, 
From  a  virgin  chorus  flows 

A  hymn  in  praise  of  spotless  Chastity. 
Tis  still!      Wild  warblings  from  the 

JSolian  lyre 

Enchantment    softly   breathe,   and    trem- 
blingly expire. 

Next  thy  Tasso's  ardent  numbers 

Float  along  the  pleased  air, 
Calling  youth  from  idle  slumbers, 

Rousing  them  from  Pleasure's  lair:  — 
Then  o'er  the  strings  his  fingers  gently 

move, 
And  melt  the  soul  to  pity  and  to  love. 

But  when  Thou  joinest  with  the  Nine, 
And  all  the  powers  of  song  combine, 

We  listen  here  on  earth: 
The  dying  tones  that  fill  the  air, 
And  charm  the  ear  of  evening  fair, 
From  thee,  Great  God  of  Bards,  receive 
their  heavenly  birth. 


HYMN   TO   APOLLO 

GOD  of  the  golden  bow, 

And  of  the  golden  lyre, 
And  of  the  golden  hair, 
And  of  the  golden  fire, 
Charioteer 
Of  the  patient  year, 


Where  —  where  slept  thine  ire, 
When  like  a  blank  idiot  I  put  on  thy  wreath, 
Thy  laurel,  thy  glory, 
The  light  of  thy  story, 
Or  was  I  a  worm  —  too  low  crawling,  for 
death  ? 

O  Delphic  Apollo  ! 

The  Thunderer  grasp'd  and  grasp'd, 

The  Thunderer  frown'd  and  frown'd; 
The  eagle's  feathery  mane 

For  wrath  became  stiff en'd  —  the  sound 
Of  breeding  thunder 
Went  drowsily  under, 
Muttering  to  be  unbound. 
O  why  didst  thou  pity,  and  for  a  worm 
Why  touch  thy  soft  lute 
Till  the  thunder  was  mute, 
Why  was  not  I  crush'd — such  a   pitiful 
germ  ? 

O  Delphic  Apollo  ! 

The  Pleiades  were  up, 

Watching  the  silent  air; 
The  seeds  and  roots  in  the  Earth 
Were  swelling  for  summer  fare; 
The  Ocean,  its  neighbour, 
Was  at  its  old  labour, 
When,  who  —  who  did  dare 
To  tie,  like  a  madman,  thy  plant  round  his 
brow, 

And  grin  and  look  proudly, 
And  blaspheme  so  loudly, 
And  live  for  that  honour,  to  stoop  to  thee 
now? 

O  Delphic  Apollo  ! 

TO  A  YOUNG  LADY  WHO  SENT 
ME   A   LAUREL   CROWN 

First  printed  by  Lord  Houghton  in  the  Life, 
Letters  and  Literary  Remains,  but  undated. 

FRESH  morning  gusts  have  blown  away  all 

fear 
From  my  glad  bosom,  —  now  from  gloom 

iness 
I  mount  for  ever  —  not  an  atom  less 


8 


EARLY   POEMS 


Than  the  proud  laurel  shall   content  my 

bier. 

No  !  by  the  eternal  stars  !  or  why  sit  here 
In  the  Sun's  eye,  and  'gainst  my  temples 

press 

Apollo's  very  leaves,  woven  to  bless 
By  thy  white  fingers  and  thy  spirit  clear. 
Lo  !  who  dares  say,  *  Do  this  ? '  Who  dares 

call  down 
My  will  from  its  high  purpose  ?     Who 

say,  « Stand,' 
Or  '  Go  ? '     This  mighty  moment  I  would 

frown 
On  abject   Csesars  —  not    the  stoutest 

band 

Of  mailed  heroes  should  tear  off  my  crown  : 
Yet  would  I  kneel  and  kiss  thy  gentle 
hand ! 


SONNET 

Published  in  the  1817  volume.  Lord  Hough- 
ton  states  that  this  sonnet  '  was  the  means  of 
introducing  Keats  to  Mr.  Leigh  Hunt's  society. 
Mr.  Cowden  Clarke  had  brought  some  of  his 
young  friend's  verses  and  read  them  aloud. 
Mr.  Horace  Smith,  who  happened  to  be  there, 
was  struck  with  the  last  six  lines,  especially 
the  penultimate,  saying  "what  a  well  condensed 
expression ! "  and  Keats  was  shortly  after  in- 
troduced to  the  literary  circle.'  This  would 
appear  to  fix  the  date  as  not  later  than  the 
summer  of  1815. 

How  many  bards  gild  the  lapses  of  time  ! 
A  few  of  them  have  ever  been  the  food 
Of  my  delighted  fancy,  —  I  could  brood 
Over  their  beauties,  earthly,  or  sublime  : 
And  often,  when  I  sit  me  down  to  rhyme, 
These  will  in  throngs  before  my  mind 

intrude : 

But  no  confusion,  no  disturbance  rude 
Do  they  occasion ;  't  is  a  pleasing  chime. 
So  the  unnumber'd  sounds  that  evening 

store ; 
The  songs  of  birds  —  the  whisp'ring  of 

the  leaves  — 

The   voice   of  waters  —  the  great  bell 
that  heaves 


With  solemn  sound,  —  and  thousand  others 

more, 

That  distance  of  recognizance  bereaves, 
Make  pleasing  music,  and  not  wild  uproar. 


SONNET 

According  to  Charles  Cowden  Clarke,  this 
sonnet  was  written  upon  Keats  first  visiting 
Hunt  in  the  Vale  of  Health.  It  was  published 
in  the  1817  volume. 

KEEN,  fitful  gusts  are  whisp'ring  here  and 
there 

Among  the  bushes  half  leafless,  and  dry ; 

The  stars  look  very  cold  about  the  sky, 
And  I  have  many  miles  on  foot  to  fare. 
Yet  feel  I  little  of  the  cool  bleak  air, 

Or  of  the  dead  leaves  rustling  drearily, 

Or  of  those  silver  lamps  that  burn  on 

high, 
Or  of  the  distance  from  home's  pleasant 

lair: 
For  I  am  brimful  of  the  friendliness 

That  in  a  little  cottage  I  have  found; 
Of  fair-hair'd  Milton's  eloquent  distress, 

And  all  his  love  for  gentle  Lycid  drown'd ; 
Of  lovely  Laura  in  her  light  green  dress, 

And  faithful  Petrarch  gloriously  crown'd. 


SPENSERIAN   STANZA 

WRITTEN  AT  THE  CLOSE  OF  CANTO  II. 
BOOK  V.  OF  'THE  FAERIE  QUEENE ' 

Given  by  Lord  Houghton  in  Life,  Letters  and 
Literary  Remains,  who  comments  as  follows : 
'  His  sympathies  were  very  much  on  the  side 
of  the  revolutionary  Giant,  who  "undertook  for 
to  repair  "  the  "  realms  and  nations  run  awry," 
and  to  suppress  "  tyrants  that  make  men  sub- 
ject to  their  law,"  "  and  lordings  curbe  that 
commons  over-aw,"  while  he  grudged  the  le- 
gitimate victory,  as  he  rejected  the  conserva- 
tive philosophy,  of  the  "righteous  Artegall" 
and  his  comrade,  the  fierce  defender  of  privi- 
lege and  order.  And  he  expressed  in  this 
ex  post  facto  prophecy,  his  conviction  of  the 


EPISTLE   TO   GEORGE   FELTON   MATHEW 


ultimate  triumph  of  freedom  and  equality  by 
the  power  of  transmitted  knowledge.'  No 
date  is  assigned,  and  the  verse  may  as  well  be 
placed  in  the  early  period  of  Keats's  acquaint- 
ance with  Spenser  and  friendship  with  Leigh 
Hunt. 

IN  after-time,  a  sage  of  mickle  lore 
Yclep'd  Typographic,  the  Giant  took, 
And  did  refit  his  limbs  as  heretofore, 
And  made  him  read  in  many  a  learned 

book, 

And  into  many  a  lively  legend  look; 
Thereby  in   goodly  themes   so   training 

him, 

That   all  his  brutishness   he  quite   for- 
sook, 

When,  meeting  Artegall  and  Talus  grim, 
The  one  he  struck  stone-blind,  the  other's 
eyes  wox  dim. 


ON     LEAVING     SOME     FRIENDS 
AT  AN    EARLY   HOUR 

Written,  as  Clarke  intimates,  in  connection 
with  Keats's  visits  to  Leigh  Hunt  in  the  Vale 
of  Health.  Published  in  the  1817  volume. 

GIVE  me  a  golden  pen,  and  let  me  lean 
On  heap'd-up  flowers,  in  regions  clear 

and  far; 

Bring  me  a  tablet  whiter  than  a  star,  % 
Or  hand  of  hymning  angel,  when  't  is  seen 
The  silver  strings  of  heavenly  harp  at  ween: 
And   let  there  glide  by  many  a  pearly 

car, 
Pink  robes,  and  wavy  hair,  and  diamond 

jar, 
And   half  -  discover'd   wings,  and   glances 

keen. 

The  while  let  music  wander  round  my  ears, 

And  as  it  reaches  each  delicious  ending, 

Let  me  write  down  a  line  of  glorious 

tone, 

And  full  of  many  wonders  of  the  spheres: 
For  what  a  height  my  spirit  is  contend- 
ing ! 
'T  is  not  content  so  soon  to  be  alone. 


ON    FIRST   LOOKING   INTO 
CHAPMAN'S   HOMER 

It  was  Charles  Cowden  Clarke  who  was  with 
Keats  when  the  friends  made  the  acquaintance 
of  this  translation  of  Homer  by  the  Eliza- 
bethan poet.  The  two  young  men  had  sat  up 
nearly  all  one  night  in  the  summer  of  1815  in 
Clarke's  lodging,  reading  from  a  folio  volume 
of  the  book  which  they  had  borrowed.  Keats 
left  for  his  own  lodgings  at  dawn,  and  when 
Clarke  came  down  to  breakfast  the  next  morn- 
ing, he  found  this  sonnet  which  Keats  had 
sent  him. 

MUCH  have  I  travelPd  in  the  realms  of 

gold, 
And  many  goodly  states  and  kingdoms 

seen; 

Round  many  western  islands  have  I  been 
Which  bards  in  fealty  to  Apollo  hold. 
Oft  of  one  wide  expanse  had  I  been  told 
That   deep-brow'd  Homer  ruled  as  his 

demesne: 

Yet  did  I  never  breathe  its  pure  serene 
Till  I  heard  Chapman  speak  out  loud  and 

bold: 

Then  felt  I  like  some  watcher  of  the  skies 
When  a  new  planet  swims  into  his  ken; 
Or  like  stout  Cortez  when  with  eagle  eyes 
He  star'd  at  the  Pacific  —  and  all  his 

men 

Look'd  at  each  other  with  a  wild  surmise  — 
Silent,  upon  a  peak  in  Darien. 


EPISTLE   TO   GEORGE   FELTON 
MATHEW 

Mathew,  who  was  of  Keats's  age,  was  his 
companion  when  he  first  went  to  London.  The 
two  had  common  tastes  in  literature  and  read 
together,  and  Mathew  also  made  essays  in 
writing,  so  that  Keats,  who  was  living  much  in 
Elizabethan  literature  at  the  time,  might  easily 
transfer  in  imagination  some  of  the  great  deeds 
of  partnership  to  himself  and  his  friend.  It 
is  worth  while  to  note  Mathew's  own  recollec- 
tion, thirty  years  later,  of  the  contrast  of  him- 


10 


EARLY   POEMS 


self  with  Keats:  '  Keats  and  I,  though  about 
the  same  age,  and  both  inclined  to  literature, 
were  in  many  respects  as  different  as  two  in- 
dividuals could  be.  He  enjoyed  good  health  — 
a  fine  flow  of  animal  spirits  —  was  fond  of 
company  —  could  amuse  himself  admirably 
with  the  frivolities  of  life — and  had  great 
confidence  in  himself.  I,  on  the  other  hand, 
was  languid  and  melancholy  —  fond  of  repose 
—  thoughtful  beyond  my  years  —  and  diffi- 
dent to  the  last  degree.'  The  epistle  is  dated 
November,  1815,  in  the  volume  of  1817,  where 
it  is  the  first  of  a  group  of  three  epistles  with 
the  motto  from  Browne's  Britannia's  Pas- 
torals : 

Among  the  rest  a  shepherd  (though  but  young 
Tet  hartned  to  his  pipe)  with  all  the  skill 
His  few  yeeres  could,  began  to  fit  his  quill. 

SWEET  are  the  pleasures  that  to  verse 

belong, 

And  doubly  sweet  a  brotherhood  in  song; 
Nor  can  remembrance,  Mathew  !  bring  to 

view 

A  fate  more  pleasing,  a  delight  more  true 
Than  that  in  which  the  brother  Poets  joy'd, 
Who,  with  combined  powers,  their  wit  em- 

ploy'd 

To  raise  a  trophy  to  the  drama's  muses. 
The  thought  of  this  great  partnership  dif- 
fuses 

Over  the  genius-loving  heart,  a  feeling 
Of  all  that 's  high,  and  great,  and  good, 
and  healing.  10 

Too  partial  friend  !  fain  would  I   follow 

thee 

Past  each  horizon  of  fine  poesy; 
Fain  would  I  echo  back  each  pleasant  note 
As  o'er  Sicilian  seas,  clear  anthems  float 
'Mong  the   light   skimming  gondolas   far 

parted, 
Just  when  the  sun  his  farewell  beam  has 

darted  * 

But 't  is  impossible ;  far  different  cares 
Beckon  me  sternly  from  soft  '  Lydian  airs,' 
And  hold  my  faculties  so  long  in  thrall, 
That  I  am  oft  in  doubt  whether  at  all       20 
I  shall  again  see  Phoebus  in  the  morning: 
Or  flush'd  Aurora  in  the  roseate  dawning  ! 


Or  a  white  Naiad  in  a  rippling  stream; 
Or  a  rapt  seraph  in  a  moonlight  beam; 
Or  again  witness  what  with  thee  I  Ve  seen, 
The  dew   by   fairy   feet  swept   from   the 

green, 

After  a  night  of  some  quaint  jubilee 
Which  every  elf  and  fay  had  come  to  see: 
When  bright  processions   took   their  airy 

march 
Beneath    the    curved    moon's    triumphal 

arch.  3o 

But  might  I  now  each  passing  moment 
give 

To  the  coy  Muse,  with  me  she  would  not 
live 

In  this  dark  city,  nor  would  condescend 

'Mid  contradictions  her  delights  to  lend. 

Should  e'er  the  fine-eyed  maid  to  me  be 
kind, 

Ah  !  surely  it  must  be  whene'er  I  find 

Some  flowery  spot,  sequester'd,  wild,  ro- 
mantic, 

That  often  must  have  seen  a  poet  fran- 
tic; 

Where  oaks,  that  erst  the  Druid  knew,  are 
growing, 

And  flowers,  the  glory  of  one  day,  are 
blowing;  40 

Where  the  dark-leav'd  laburnum's  droop- 
ing clusters 

Reflect  athwart  the  stream  their  yellow 
lustres, 

And  intertwined  the  cassia's  arms  unite, 

With  its  own  drooping  buds,  but  very  white. 

Where  on  one  side  are  covert  branches 
hung, 

'Mong  which  the  nightingales  have  always 
sung 

In  leafy  quiet:  where  to  pry,  aloof 

Atween  the  pillars  of  the  sylvan  roof, 

Would  be  to  find  where  violet  beds  were 
nestling, 

And  where  the  bee  with  cowslip  bells  was 
wrestling.  50 

There  must  be  too  a  ruin  dark  and  gloomy, 

To  say  '  Joy  not  too  much  in  all  that 's 
bloomy.' 


TO 


ii 


Yet  this  is  vain  —  O  Mathew,  lend  thy 

aid 
To  find  a  place  where  I  may  greet  the 

maid  — 

Where  we  may  soft  humanity  put  on, 
And  sit,  and  rhyme  and  think  on  Chatter- 
ton; 
And  that  warm-hearted  Shakspeare  sent  to 

meet  him 

Four  laurell'd  spirits,  heavenward  to  en- 
treat him. 
With  reverence  would  we  speak  of  all  the 

sages 
Who   have   left   streaks  of   light  athwart 

their  ages:  60 

And  thou    shouldst  moralize   on   Milton's 

blindness, 
And  mourn  the  fearful  dearth  of  human 

kindness 
To  those  who  strove  with  the  bright  golden 

wing 

Of  genius,  to  flap  away  each  sting 
Thrown  by  the  pitiless  world.     We  next 

could  tell 

Of  those  who  in  the  cause  of  freedom  fell; 
Of  our  own  Alfred,  of  Helvetian  Tell; 
Of   him  whose   name   to  ev'ry  heart  's  a 

solace, 
High  -  minded     and     unbending    William 

Wallace. 
While  to   the   rugged   north   our   musing 

turns,  70 

We  well  might  drop  a  tear  for  him,  and 

Burns. 

Felton !  without  incitements  such  as  these, 
How  vain  for  me   the   niggard  Muse   to 

tease: 

For  thee,  she  will  thy  every  dwelling  grace, 
And  make  '  a  sunshine  in  a  shady  place: ' 
For   thou  wast  once   a    flowret   blooming 

wild, 
Close  to  the  source,  bright,  pure,  and  unde- 

fil'd, 
Whence   gush   the    streams   of    song:    in 

happy  hour 

Came  chaste  Diana  from  her  shady  bower, 
Just  as  the  sun  was  from  the  east  uprising; 


And,  as  for  him  some  gift  she  was  devising, 
Beheld  thee,  pluck'd  thee,  cast  thee  in  the 

stream  82 

To  meet  her  glorious   brother's   greeting 

beam. 

I  marvel  much  that  thou  hast  never  told 
How,  from  a  flower,  into  a  fish  of  gold 
Apollo  chang'd  thee:  how  thou  next  didst 

seem 
A    black-ey'd    swan    upon    the    widening 

stream ; 
And  when  thou  first  didst  in  that  mirror 

trace 

The  placid  features  of  a  human  face: 
That  thou    hast    never  told    thy  travels 

strange,  90 

And  all  the  wonders  of  the  mazy  range 
O'er  pebbly  crystal,  and  o'er  golden  sands; 
Kissing  thy  daily  food  from  Naiads'  pearly 

hands. 


TO  

A  valentine  written  in  1816  by  Keats  for  his 
brother  George  to  send  to  the  lady  Georgiana 
Wylie,  whom  he  afterward  married,  was  later 
expanded  into  the  following  lines.  It  was  in- 
cluded in  the  1817  volume.  For  the  original 
valentine  see  the  Notes  at  the  end  of  this 
volume. 

HADST  thou  liv'd  in  days  of  old, 

O  what  wonders  had  been  told 

Of  thy  lively  countenance, 

And  thy  humid  eyes  that  dance 

In  the  midst  of  their  own  brightness; 

In  the  very  fane  of  lightness. 

Over  which  thine  eyebrows,  leaning, 

Picture  out  each  lovely  meaning: 

In  a  dainty  bend  they  lie, 

Like  to  streaks  across  the  sky,  ic 

Or  the  feathers  from  a  crow, 

Fallen  on  a  bed  of  snow. 

Of  thy  dark  hair,  that  extends 

Into  many  graceful  bends: 

As  the  leaves  of  Hellebore 

Turn  to  whence  they  sprung  before. 

And  behind  each  ample  curl 


12 


EARLY   POEMS 


Peeps  the  richness  of  a  pearl. 
Downward  too  flows  many  a  tress 
With  a  glossy  waviness;  20 

Full,  and  round  like  globes  that  rise 
From  the  censer  to  the  skies 
Through  sunny  air.     Add  too,  the  sweet- 
ness 

Of  thy  honied  voice;  the  neatness 
Of  thine  ankle  lightly  turn'd: 
With  those  beauties  scarce  discern'd, 
Kept  with  such  sweet  privacy, 
That  they  seldom  meet  the  eye 
Of  the  little  loves  that  fly 
Round  about  with  eager  pry.  30 

Saving  when,  with  freshening  lave, 
Thou  dipp'st  them  in  the  taintless  wave; 
Like  twin  water-lilies,  born 
In  the  coolness  of  the  morn. 
O,  if  thou  hadst  breathed  then, 
Now  the  Muses  had  been  ten. 
Couldst  thou  wish  for  lineage  higher 
Than  twin-sister  of  Thalia  ? 
At  least  for  ever,  evermore 
Will  I  call  the  Graces  four.  40 

Hadst  thou  liv'd  when  chivalry 

Lifted  up  her  lance  on  high, 

Tell  me  what  thou  wouldst  have  been  ? 

Ah !  I  see  the  silver  sheen 

Of  thy  broider'd,  floating  vest 

Cov'ring  half  thine  ivory  breast: 

Which,  O  heavens  !  I  should  see, 

But  that  cruel  destiny 

Has  plac'd  a  golden  cuirass  there; 

Keeping  secret  what  is  fair.  50 

Like  sunbeams  in  a  cloudlet  nested 

Thy  locks  in  knightly  casque  are  rested: 

O'er  which  bend  four  milky  plumes 

Like  the  gentle  lily's  blooms 

Springing  from  a  costly  vase. 

See  with  what  a  stately  pace 

Comes  thine  alabaster  steed; 

Servant  of  heroic  deed  ! 

O'er  his  loins  his  trappings  glow 

Like  the  northern  lights  on  snow.  60 

Mount  his  back  !  thy  sword  unsheath  ! 

Sign  of  the  enchanter's  death; 

Bane  of  every  wicked  spell; 


Silencer  of  dragon's  yell. 
Alas  !  thou  this  wilt  never  do: 
Thou  art  an  enchantress  too, 
And  wilt  surely  never  spill 
Blood  of  those  whose  eyes  can  kill. 


SONNET 

Lord  Houghton  gives  the  date  of  1816.     It 
appears  in  the  Aldine  edition  of  1876. 

As  from  the  darkening  gloom  a  silver  dove 
Upsoars,  and  darts  into  the  eastern  light, 
On  pinions  that  nought  moves  but  pure 

delight, 

So  fled  thy  soul  into  the  realms  above, 
Regions  of  peace  and  everlasting  love; 
Where  happy  spirits,  crown'd  with  cir- 
clets bright 

Of  starry  beam,  and  gloriously  bedight, 
Taste  the  high  joy  none  but  the  blest  can 

prove. 
There  thou  or  joinest  the  immortal  quire 

In  melodies  that  even  heaven  fair 
Fill  with  superior  bliss,  or,  at  desire, 

Of  the  omnipotent  Father,  cleav'st  the 

air 
On  holy  message  sent  —  What  pleasure  's 

higher  ? 
Wherefore  does  any  grief  our  joy  impair  ? 


SONNET   TO    SOLITUDE 

Published  in  The  Examiner,  5  May,  1816,  and 
the  first  piece  printed  by  Keats.  It  was  re- 
issued in  the  1817  volume. 

O  SOLITUDE  !  if  I  must  with  thee  dwell, 
Let  it  not  be  among  the  jumbled  heap 
Of  murky  buildings ;  climb  with  me  the 

steep,  — 

Nature's  observatory,  —  whence  the  dell, 
Its  flowery  slopes,  its  river's  crystal  swell, 
May  seem  a  span ;  let  me  thy  vigils  keep 
'Mongst   boughs    pavilion'd,  where   the 

deer's  swift  leap 

Startles  the  wild  bee  from   the  foxglove 
bell. 


SONNET 


But  though  I  '11  gladly  trace  these  scenes 

with  thee, 
Yet  the  sweet  converse  of  an  innocent 

mind, 
Whose  words  are  images  of  thoughts  re- 

fin'd, 

Is  my  soul's  pleasure;  and  it  sure  must  be 

Almost  the  highest  bliss  of  human-kind, 

When  to  thy  haunts  two  kindred  spirits  flee. 


SONNET 

George  Keats  has  a  memorandum  on  this 
sonnet,  '  written  in  the  Fields,  June,  1816.' 
Published  in  the  1817  volume. 

To  one  who  has  been  long  in  city  pent, 
'Tis  very  sweet  to  look  into  the  fair 
And  open  face  of  heaven,  —  to  breathe 

a  prayer 

Full  in  the  smile  of  the  blue  firmament. 
Who   is   more  happy,  when,  with    hearts 

content, 

Fatigued  he  sinks  into  some  pleasant  lair 
Of  wavy  grass,  and  reads  a  debonair 
And  gentle  tale  of  love  and  languishment  ? 
Returning  home  at  evening,  with  an  ear 

Catching  the  notes  of  Philomel,  —  an  eye 
Watching  the  sailing  cloudlet's  bright  ca- 
reer, 
He  mourns  that  day  so  soon  has  glided 

by: 

E'en  like  the  passage  of  an  angel's  tear 
That  falls  through  the  clear  ether  si- 
lently. 


TO   A    FRIEND    WHO   SENT    ME 
SOME   ROSES 

The  friend  was  Charles  J.  Wells,  author  of 
the  dramatic  poem  Joseph  and  his  Brethren, 
which  was  published  in  1824,  when  it  died  al- 
most at  once  and  was  recalled  to  life  by  a  few 
words  printed  by  D.  G.  Rossetti  in  1863,  and  has 
since  been  reprinted  for  the  curious.  In  Tom 
Keats's  copy  book  the  sonnet  is  dated  29  June, 
1816.  It  is  included  in  the  volume  of  1817. 


As  late  I  rambled  in  the  happy  fields, 
What  time  the  skylark  shakes  the  tremu- 
lous dew 

From  his  lush  clover  covert ;  —  when  anew 
Adventurous  knights  take  up  their  dinted 

shields: 

I  saw  the  sweetest  flower  wild  nature  yields, 
A  fresh-blown  musk-rose;  't  was  the  first 

that  threw 
Its  sweets  upon  the  summer:  graceful  it 

grew 

As  is  the  wand  that  Queen  Titania  wields. 
And,  as  I  feasted  on  its  fragrancy, 

I  thought  the  garden-rose  it  far  excell'd: 

But  when,  O  Wells  !  thy  roses  came  to  me, 

My  sense   with  their  deliciousness   was 

spell'd: 

Soft  voices  had  they,  that  with  tender  plea 
Whisper'd    of    peace,    and    truth,    and 
friendliness  unquell'd. 


SONNET 

First  printed  by  Lord  Houghton  in  the  Life, 
Letters  and  Literary  Remains,  with  the  date 
1816. 

OH  !  how  I  love,  on  a  fair  summer's  eve, 
When  streams  of   light  pour  down  the 

golden  west, 

And  on  the  balmy  zephyrs  tranquil  rest 
The  silver  clouds,  far  —  far  away  to  leave 
All  meaner  thoughts,  and  take  a  sweet  re- 
prieve 

From  little  cares;  to  find,  with  easy  quest, 
A  fragrant  wild,  with  Nature's  beauty 

drest, 

And  there  into  delight  my  soul  deceive. 
There  warm  my  breast  with  patriotic  lore, 
Musing  on  Milton's  fate  —  on  Sydney's 

bier  — 
Till  their  stern  forms  before  my  mind 

arise : 

Perhaps  on  wings  of  Poesy  upsoar, 
Full  often  dropping  a  delicious  tear, 
When  some  melodious  sorrow  qpella 
mine  eyes. 


EARLY   POEMS 


«I    STOOD  TIPTOE  UPON   A 
LITTLE   HILL' 

'  Places  of  nestling  green,  for  poets  made.' 

LEIGH  HUNT,  The  Story  of  Rimini. 

Leigh  Hunt,  in  Lord  Byron  and  Some  of  Sis 
Contemporaries,  says  that  '  this  poem  was  sug- 
gested to  Keats  by  a  delightful  summer's  day 
as  he  stood  beside  the  gate  that  leads  from  the 
Battery  on  Hampstead  Heath  into  a  field  by 
Caen  Wood ;  '  but  it  is  not  needful  for  one  to 
put  himself  into  the  same  geographical  position. 
It  is  more  to  the  point  to  remember  that  when 
Keats  wrote  the  lines  which  here  follow  he  was 
living  in  the  Vale  of  Health  in  Hampstead, 
happy  in  the  association  of  Hunt  and  kindred 
spirits,  and  trembling  with  the  consciousness  of 
his  own  poetic  power.  He  had  not  yet  essayed 
a  long  flight,  as  in  Endymion  ;  but  these  lines 
indeed  were  written  as  a  prelude  to  a  poem 
which  he  was  devising,  which  should  narrate 
the  loves  of  Diana,  and  it  will  be  seen  how, 
with  circling  flight,  he  draws  nearer  and  nearer 
to  his  theme ;  but  after  all,  his  song  ends  with 
a  half  agitated  and  passionate  speculation  over 
his  own  poetic  birth.  The  date  of  the  poem, 
which  is  the  first  after  the  dedication,  in  the 
1817  volume,  was  presumably  in  the  summer 
of  1816,  for  Keats  appears  to  have  written 
promptly  under  the  stimulus  of  momentary 
experience. 

I  STOOD  tiptoe  upon  a  little  hill, 
The  air  was  cooling,  and  so  very  still 
That  the  sweet  buds  which  with  a  modest 

pride 

Pull  droopiugly,  in  slanting  curve  aside, 
Their  scantly-leaved  and  finely   tapering 

stems, 

Had  not  yet  lost  those  starry  diadems 
Caught  from  the  early  sobbing  of  the  morn. 
The  clouds  were  pure  and  white  as  flocks 

new  shorn, 
And  fresh  from  the  clear  brook;  sweetly 

they  slept 
On  the  blue  fields  of  heaven,  and  then  there 

crept  10 

A  little  noiseless  noise  among  the  leaves, 
Born  of  the  very  sigh  that  silence  heaves: 
For  not  the  faintest  motion  could  be  seen 


Of  all  the  shades  that  slanted  o'er  the  green. 
There  was  wide  wand'ring  for  the  greedi- 
est eye 

To  peer  about  upon  variety; 
Far  round  the  horizon's  crystal  air  to  skim, 
And  trace  the  dwindled  edgings  of  its  brim; 
To    picture   out   the   quaint   and    curious 

bending 

Of  a  fresh  woodland  alley,  never-ending;  20 
Or  by  the  bowery  clefts,  and  leafy  shelves, 
Guess  where  the  jaunty  streams  refresh 

themselves. 

I  gazed  awhile,  and  felt  as  light  and  free 
As  though  the  fanning  wings  of  Mercury 
Had  played  upon  my  heels:  I  was  light- 
hearted, 

And  many  pleasures  to  my  vision  started; 
So  I  straightway  began  to  pluck  a  posey 
Of  luxuries  bright,  milky,  soft,  and  rosy. 

A  bush  of  May  flowers  with  the  bees 
about  them; 

Ah,  sure  no  tasteful  nook  could  be  without 
them ;  30 

And  let  a  lush  laburnum  oversweep  them, 

And  let  long  grass  grow  round  the  roots 
to  keep  them 

Moist,  cool,  and  green;  and  shade  the  vio- 
lets, 

That  they  may  bind  the  moss  in  leafy  nets. 

A   filbert    hedge  with  wild  briar   over- 
twined, 
And  clumps  of  woodbine  taking  the  soft 

wind 
Upon   their   summer   thrones;    there    too 

should  be 

The  frequent  chequer  of  a  youngling  tree, 
That  with  a  score  of  light  green  brethren 

shoots 

From  the  quaint  mossiness  of  aged  roots :  40 
Round  which  is  heard  a  spring-head  of 

clear  waters 

Babbling  so  wildly  of  its  lovely  daughters 
The   spreading   blue-bells:   it   may   haply 

mourn 
That  such  fair  clusters  should  be  rudely 

torn 


I    STOOD   TIPTOE   UPON   A   LITTLE   HILL 


From    their    fresh    beds,    and    scattered 

thoughtlessly 
By  infant  hands,  left  on  the  path  to  die. 

Open  afresh  your  round  of  starry  folds, 
Ye  ardent  marigolds  ! 

Dry  up  the  moisture  from  your  golden  lids, 
For  great  Apollo  bids  50 

That  in  these  days  your  praises  should  be 

sung 

On  many  harps,  which  he  has  lately  strung; 
And  when  again  your  dewiness  he  kisses, 
Tell  him,  I  have  you  in  my  world  of  blisses : 
So  haply  when  I  rove  in  some  far  vale, 
His  mighty  voice  may  come  upon  the  gale. 

Here  are   sweet  peas,  on  tiptoe  for  a 

flight: 
With  wings  of   gentle  flush  o'er  delicate 

white, 

And  taper  fingers  catching  at  all  things, 
To  bind  them  all  about  with  tiny  rings.     60 

Linger  awhile  upon  some  bending  planks 
That  lean  against  a  streamlet's  rushy  banks, 
And  watch  intently  Nature's  gentle  doings: 
They  will  be  found  softer  than  ring-dove's 

cooings. 

How  silent  comes  the  water  round  that  bend ; 
Not  the  minutest  whisper  does  it  send 
To  the  o'erhanging  sallows:  blades  of  grass 
Slowly  across  the  chequer'd  shadows  pass. 
Why,  you  might  read  two  sonnets,  ere  they 

reach 
To  where   the  hurrying    freshnesses   aye 

preach  70 

A  natural  sermon  o'er  their  pebbly  beds; 
Where  swarms  of  minnows  show  their  little 

heads, 
Staying    their    wavy    bodies    'gainst    the 

streams, 

To  taste  the  luxury  of  sunny  beams 
Temper'd  with  coolness.      How  they  ever 

wrestle 
With  their  own  sweet   delight,  and  erer 

nestle 

Their  silver  bellies  on  the  pebbly  sand. 
If  you  but  scantily  hold  out  the  hand, 


That  very  instant  not  one  will  remain; 
But  turn  your  eye,  and  they  are  there  again. 
The  ripples  seem  right  glad  to  reach  those 

cresses,  81 

And  cool   themselves  among  the  em'rald 

tresses; 

The  while  they  cool  themselves,  they  fresh- 
ness give, 
And  moisture,  that  the  bowery  green  may 

live: 

So  keeping  up  an  interchange  of  favours, 
Like   good  men  in  the  truth  of  their  be- 
haviours. 

Sometimes  goldfinches  one  by  one  will  drop 
From  low-hung  branches;  little  space  they 

stop; 
But   sip,  and   twitter,  and  their  feathers 

sleek; 

Then  off  at  once,  as  in  a  wanton  freak:  90 
Or  perhaps,  to  show  their  black,  and  golden 

wings, 

Pausing  upon  their  yellow  flutterings. 
Were  I  in  such  a  place,  I  sure  should  pray 
That   nought  less   sweet,  might  call   my 

thoughts  away, 

Than  the  soft  rustle  of  a  maiden's  gown 
Fanning  away  the  dandelion's  down ; 
Than  the  light  music  of  her  nimble  toes 
Patting  against  the  sorrel  as  she  goes. 
How  she  would  start,  and  blush,  thus  to  be 

caught 

Playing  in  all  her  innocence  of  thought,  too 
O  let  me  lead  her  gently  o'er  the  brook, 
Watch  her  half-smiling  lips,  and  downward 

look; 

O  let  me  for  one  moment  touch  her  wrist; 
Let  me  one  moment  to  her  breathing  list; 
And  as  she  leaves  me,  may  she  often  turn 
Her  fair  eyes  looking  through  her  locks  au- 

burne. 

What  next  ?  A  tuft  of  evening  primroses, 
O'er  which  the  mind  may  hover  till  it  dozes; 
O'er  which  it  well  might  take  a  pleasant 

sleep, 

But  that 't  is  ever  startled  by  the  leap  no 
Of  buds  into  ripe  flowers;  or  by  the  flitting 
Of  diverse  moths,  that  aye  their  rest  are 

quitting; 


i6 


EARLY   POEMS 


Or  by  the  moon  lifting  her  silver  rini 
Above  a  cloud,  and  with  a  gradual  swim 
Coming  into  the  blue  with  all  her  light. 
O  Maker  of  sweet  poets,  dear  delight 
Of  this  fair  world,  and  all  its  gentle  livers; 
Spangler  of  clouds,  halo  of  crystal  rivers, 
Mingler  with  leaves,  and  dew  and  tumbling 

streams, 

Closer  of  lovely  eyes  to  lovely  dreams,    120 
Lover  of  loneliness,  and  wandering, 
Of  upcast  eye,  and  tender  pondering  ! 
Thee  must  I  praise  above  all  other  glo- 
ries 

That  smile  us  on  to  tell  delightful  stories. 
For  what  has  made  the  sage  or  poet  write 
But  the  fair  paradise  of  Nature's  light  ? 
In  the  calm  grandeur  of  a  sober  line, 
We  see  the  waving  of  the  mountain  pine; 
And  when  a  tale  is  beautifully  staid, 
We  feel  the  safety  of  a  hawthorn  glade:  130 
When  it  is  moving  on  luxurious  wings, 
The  soul  is  lost  in  pleasant  smotherings: 
Fair  dewy  roses  brush  against  our  faces, 
And  flowering  laurels  spring  from  diamond 

vases; 

O'erhead  we  see  the  jasmine  and  sweet- 
briar, 
And  bloomy  grapes  laughing  from  green 

attire ; 
While   at   our   feet,  the   voice   of   crystal 

bubbles 

Charms  us  at  once  away  from  all  our  trou- 
bles: 

So  that  we  feel  uplifted  from  the  world, 
Walking  upon  the  white  clouds  wreath'd 
and  curPd.  •    i40 

So   felt  he,   who   first    told,   how   Psyche 

went 

On  the  smooth  wind  to  realms  of  wonder- 
ment; 
What  Psyche  felt,  and  Love,  when  their 

full  lips 
First  touch'd;  what  amorous  and  fondling 

nips 
They  gave   each  other's  cheeks;  with   all 

their  sighs, 

And  how  they  kist  each  other's  tremulous 
eyes: 


The  silver  lamp,  —  the  ravishment,  —  the 

wonder  — 
The   darkness,  —  loneliness,  —  the   fearful 

thunder; 

Their  woes  gone  by,  and  both  to  heaven  up- 
flown,  i49 
To  bow  for  gratitude  before  Jove's  throne. 
So   did    he   feel,    who    pull'd   the    boughs 

aside, 

That  we  might  look  into  a  forest  wide, 
To  catch  a  glimpse  of  Fauns,  and  Dryades 
Coming   with   softest   rustle    through   the 

trees; 
And  garlands  woven  of  flowers  wild,  and 

sweet, 

Upheld  on  ivory  wrists,  or  sporting  feet: 
Telling  us  how  fair,  trembling  Syrinx  fled 
Arcadian  Pan,  with  such  a  fearful  dread. 
Poor  Nymph,  —  poor  Pan,  —  how  he   did 

weep  to  find 

Nought  but  a  lovely  sighing  of  the  wind  160 
Along  the  reedy  stream ;  a  half-heard  strain, 
Full  of  sweet  desolation  —  balmy  pain. 

What  first  inspired  a  bard  of  old  to  sing 
Narcissus  pining  o'er  the  untainted  spring  ? 
In  some  delicious  ramble,  he  had  found 
A  little  space,  with  boughs  all  woven  round; 
And  in  the  midst  of  all,  a  clearer  pool 
Than  e'er  reflected  in  its  pleasant  cool, 
The  blue  sky  here,  and  there,  serenely  peep- 
ing 

Through  tendril  wreaths  fantastically  creep- 
ing. 170 
And  on  the  bank  a  lonely  flower  he  spied, 
A  meek  and  forlorn  flower,  with  naught  of 

pride, 

Drooping  its  beauty  o'er  the  watery  clear- 
ness, 

To  woo  its  own  sad  image  into  nearness: 
Deaf  to  light  Zephyrus  it  would  not  move ; 
But  still  would  seem  to  droop,  to  pine,  to 

love. 

So  while  the  Poet  stood  in  this  sweet  spot, 
Some   fainter    gleamings    o'er    his    fancy 

shot; 

Nor  was  it  long  ere  he  had  told  the  tale 
Of  young  Narcissus,  and  sad  Echo's  bale.  180 


I    STOOD   TIPTOE   UPON   A   LITTLE   HILL 


Where  had  he  been,  from  whose  warm 

head  outflew 

That  sweetest  of  all  songs,  that  ever  new, 
That  aye  refreshing,  pure  deliciousness, 
Coming  ever  to  bless 
The    wanderer    by    moonlight  ?     to    him 

bringing 
Shapes  from  the  invisible  world,  unearthly 

singing 
From   out   the   middle   air,    from   flowery 

nests, 

And  from  the  pillowy  silkiness  that  rests 
Full  in  the  speculation  of  the  stars.  189 

Ah  !  surely  he  had  burst  our  mortal  bars; 
Into  some  wond'rous  region  he  had  gone, 
To  search  for  thee,  divine  Endymion  ! 

He  was  a  Poet,  sure  a  lover  too, 
Who   stood   on   Latmus'   top,    what    time 

there  blew 

Soft  breezes  from  the  myrtle  vale  below; 
And  brought  in  faintness  solemn,  sweet, 

and  slow 

A  hymn   from   Dian's   temple;  while  up- 
swelling, 

The  incense  went  to  her  own  starry  dwell- 
ing. 

But  though  her  face  was  clear  as  infant's 
eyes,  199 

Though  she  stood  smiling  o'er  the  sacrifice, 
The  Poet  wept  at  her  so  piteous  fate, 
Wept  that  such   beauty  should   be   deso- 
late: 

So  in  fine  wrath  some  golden  sounds  he  won, 
And  gave  meek  Cynthia  her  Endymion. 

Queen  of  the  wide  air;  thou  most  lovely 

queen 
Of  all  the  brightness  that  mine  eyes  have 

seen  ! 

As  thou  exceedest  all  things  in  thy  shine, 
So  every  tale,  does  this  sweet  tale  of  thine. 
O  for  three  words  of  honey,  that  I  might 
Tell  but  one  wonder  of  thy  bridal  night  !  2 10 

Where    distant  ships  do  seem  to  show 

their  keels, 
Phoabus  awhile  delay 'd  his  mighty  wheels, 


I  And  turn'd  to  smile  upon  thy  bashful  eyes, 
Ere    he    his    unseen   pomp   would  solem- 
nize. 
The  evening  weather  was  so  bright,  and 

clear, 

j  That  men  of  health  were  of  unusual  cheer; 
Stepping   like    Homer    at    the    trumpet's 

call, 

Or  young  Apollo  on  the  pedestal: 
And  lovely  women  were  as  fair  and  warm, 
As  Venus  looking  sideways  in  alarm.       220 
The  breezes  were  ethereal,  and  pure, 
And  crept  through  half  closed  lattices  to 

cure 
The  languid  sick;  it  cool'd  their  fever'd 

sleep, 
And  soothed  them  into  slumbers  full  and 

deep. 
Soon  they  awoke    clear-eyed:    nor  burnt 

with  thirsting, 
Nor   with   hot  fingers,  nor   with   temples 

bursting: 
And  springing  up,  they  met  the  wond'ring 

sight 
Of  their  dear  friends,   nigh   foolish   with 

delight; 
Who  feel  their  arms,  and  breasts,  and  kiss 

and  stare, 
And  on  their  placid  foreheads  part  the 

hair.  230 

Young   men   and   maidens   at  each  other 

gaz'd, 
With  hands   held  back,  and    motionless, 

amaz'd 

To  see  the  brightness  in  each  other's  eyes; 
And  so  they  stood,  fill'd  with  a  sweet  sur^ 

prise, 

Until  their  tongues  were  loos'd  in  poesy. 
Therefore  no  lover  did  of  anguish  die: 
But  the   soft   numbers,   in   that    moment 

spoken, 

Made  silken  ties,  that  never  may  be  broken, 
Cynthia  !  I  cannot  tell  the  greater  blisses 
That  follow'd  thine,  and  thy  dear  shep- 
herd's kisses:  240 
Was  there  a  Poet  born  ?  —  But  now  no 

more, 
My  wand'ring  spirit  must  no  further  soar. 


i8 


EARLY   POEMS 


SLEEP   AND   POETRY 

The  last  poem  in  the  1817  volume.  Charles 
Cowden  Clarke  relates  that  '  it  was  in  the 
library  of  Hunt's  cottage,  where  an  extempore 
bed  had  been  put  up  for  Keats  on  the  sofa,  that 
he  composed  the  framework  and  many  lines 
of  this  poem,  the  last  sixty  or  seventy  being 
an  inventory  of  the  art  garniture  of  the  room.' 
It  may  be  assigned  to  the  summer  of  1816. 

As  I  lay  in  my  bed  slepe  full  unmete 
Was  unto  me,  but  why  that  I  ne  might 
Rest  I  ne  wist,  for  there  n'  as  erthly  wight 
(As  I  suppose)  had  more  of  hertis  ese 
Than  I,  for  I  n'  ad  sicknesse  nor  disese. 

CHAUCER. 

WHAT  is  more  gentle  than  a  wind  in  sum- 
mer ? 

What  is  more  soothing  than  the  pretty 
hummer 

That  stays  one  moment  in  an  open  flower, 

And  buzzes  cheerily  from  bower  to  bower  ? 

What  is  more  tranquil  than  a  musk-rose 
blowing 

In  a  green  island,  far  from  all  men's  know- 
ing? 

More  healthful  than  the  leafiness  of  dales  ? 

More  secret  than  a  nest  of  nightingales  ? 

More  serene  than  Cordelia's  countenance  ? 

More  full  of  visions  than  a  high  romance  ? 

What,  but  thee,  Sleep  ?  Soft  closer  of  our 
eyes !  n 

Low  murmurer  of  tender  lullabies  ! 

Light  hoverer  around  our  happy  pillows  ! 

Wreather  of  poppy  buds,  and  weeping 
willows  ! 

Silent  entangler  of  a  beauty's  tresses  ! 

Most  happy  listener  !  when  the  morning 
blesses 

Thee  for  enlivening  all  the  cheerful  eyes 

That  glance  so  brightly  at  the  new  sun- 
rise. 

But  what  is  higher  beyond  thought  than 

thee? 

Fresher  than  berries  of  a  mountain-tree  ? 
More  strange,  more  beautiful,  more  smooth, 

more  regal,  21 


Than  wings  of  swans,  than  doves,  than  dim- 
seen  eagle  ? 
What  is  it  ?     And  to  what  shall  I  compare 

it? 

It  has  a  glory,  and  nought  else  can  share  it: 
The  thought  thereof  is  awful,  sweet,  and 

holy, 

Chasing  away  all  worldliness  and  folly: 
Coming   sometimes   like   fearful   claps   of 

thunder, 

Or  the  low  rumblings  earth's  regions  un- 
der; 

And  sometimes  like  a  gentle  whispering  29 
Of  all  the  secrets  of  some  wond'rous  thing 
That  breathes  about  us  in  the  vacant  air; 
So  that  we  look  around  with  prying  stare, 
Perhaps  to  see  shapes  of  light,  aerial  lim- 
ning; 
And  catch  soft  floatings  from  a  faint-heard 

hymning; 

To  see  the  laurel  wreath,  on  high  suspended, 
That  is  to  crown  our  name  when  life  is 

ended. 

Sometimes  it  gives  a  glory  to  the  voice, 
And  from  the  heart  up-springs,   rejoice  ! 

rejoice  ! 
Sounds  which  will  reach  the  Framer  of  all 

things, 
And  die  away  in  ardent  mutterings.          4o 

No  one  who  once  the  glorious  sun  has 

seen, 

And  all  the  clouds,  and  felt  his  bosom  clean 
For  his  great  Maker's  presence,  but  must 

know 

What  't  is  I  mean,  and  feel  his  being  glow; 
Therefore  no  insult  will  I  give  his  spirit, 
By  telling  what  he  sees  from  native  merit. 

O  Poesy  !  for  thee  I  hold  my  pen, 
That  am  not  yet  a  glorious  denizen 
Of  thy  wide  heaven  —  should  I  rather  kneel 
Upon  some  mountain-top  until  I  feel         50 
A  growing  splendour  round  about  me  hung, 
And   echo   back   the   voice   of   thine   own 

tongue  ? 

O  Poesy  !  for  thee  I  grasp  my  pen, 
That  am  not  yet  a  glorious  denizen 


SLEEP   AND    POETRY 


Of  thy   wide  heaven;  yet,   to   my  ardent 

prayer. 

Yield  from  thy  sanctuary  some  clear  air, 
Smoothed  for  intoxication  by  the  breath 
Of  flowering  bays,  that  I  may  die  a  death 
Of  luxury,  and  my  young  spirit  follow 
The  morning  sunbeams  to  the  great  Apollo 
Like  a  fresh  sacrifice;  or,  if  I  can  bear     61 
The  o'erwhelming  sweets,  'twill  bring  to 

me  the  fair 

Visions  of  all  places:  a  bowery  nook 
Will  be  elysium  —  an  eternal  book 
Whence  I  may  copy  many  a  lovely  saying 
About  the  leaves,  and  flowers  —  about  the 

playing 
Of  nymphs  in  woods,  and  fountains;  and 

the  shade 

Keeping  a  silence  round  a  sleeping  maid ; 
And  many  a  verse  from  so  strange  influence 
That  we  must  ever  wonder  how,  and  whence 
It  came.  Also  imaginings  will  hover  71 
Round  my  fire-side,  and  haply  there  dis- 
cover 

Vistas  of  solemn  beauty,  where  I  'd  wander 
In  happy  silence,  like  the  clear  Meander 
Through  its  lone  vales;  and  where  I  found 

a  spot 

Of  awfuller  shade,  or  an  enchanted  grot, 
Or  a  green  hill  o'erspread  with  chequer'd 

dress 

Of  flowers,  and  fearful  from  its  loveliness, 
Write  on  my  tablets  all  that  was  permitted, 
All  that  was  for  our  human  senses  fitted. 
Then  the  events  of  this  wide  world  I'd 

seize  81 

Like  a  strong  giant,  and  my  spirit  tease 
Till  at  its  shoulders  it  should  proudly  see 
Wings  to  find  out  an  immortality. 

Stop  and  consider  !  life  is  but  a  day ; 
A  fragile  dewdrop  on  its  perilous  way 
From  a  tree's  summit ;  a  poor  Indian's  sleep 
While  his  boat  hastens  to  the  monstrous 

steep 

Of  Montmorenci.     WTiy  so  sad  a  moan  ? 
Life  is  the  rose's  hope  while  yet  unblown; 
The  reading  of  an  ever-changing  tale;      91 
The  light  uplifting  of  a  maiden's  veil; 


A  pigeon  tumbling  in  clear  summer  air; 
A  laughing  school-boy,   without   grief  or 

care, 
Riding  the  springy  branches  of  an  elm. 

O  for  ten  years,  that  I  may  overwhelm 
Myself  in  poesy;  so  I  may  do  the  deed 
That  my  own  soul  has  to  itself  decreed. 
Then  I  will  pass  the  countries  that  I  see 
In  long  perspective,  and  continually         100 
Taste  their  pure  fountains.     First  the  realm 

I  '11  pass 

Of  Flora,  and  old  Pan :  sleep  in  the  grass, 
Feed  upon  apples  red,  and  strawberries, 
And  choose  each  pleasure  that  my  fancy 

sees; 
Catch  the  white-handed  nymphs  in  shady 

places, 

To  woo  sweet  kisses  from  averted  faces,  — 
Play  with  their  fingers,  touch  their  shoul- 
ders white 

Into  a  pretty  shrinking  with  a  bite 
As  hard  as  lips  can  make  it:  till  agreed, 
A  lovely  tale  of  human  life  we  '11  read.   1 10 
And  one  will  teach  a  tame  dove  how  it  best 
May  fan  the  cool  air  gently  o'er  my  rest; 
Another,  bending  o'er  her  nimble  tread, 
Will  set  a  green  robe  floating  round  her 

head, 

And  still  will  dance  with  ever-varied  ease, 
Smiling  upon  the  flowers  and  the  trees: 
Another  will  entice  me  on,  and  on 
Through  almond  blossoms  and  rich  cinna- 
mon; 

Till  in  the  bosom  of  a  leafy  world 
We  rest  in  silence,  like  two  gems  upcurl'd 
In  the  recesses  of  a  pearly  shell.  121 

And  can  I  ever  bid  these  joys  farewell  ? 
Yes,  I  must  pass  them  for  a  nobler  life, 
Where  I  may  find  the  agonies,  the  strife 
Of  human  hearts:  for  lo  !  I  see  afar, 
O'er-sailing  the  blue  cragginess,  a  car 
And    steeds    with    streamy   manes  —  the 

charioteer 

Looks  out  upon  the  winds  with  glorious  fear: 
And  now  the  numerous  tramplings  quiver 

lightly 


20 


EARLY   POEMS 


Along  a  huge  cloud's  ridge ;  and  now  with 
sprightly  130 

Wheel  downward  come  they  into  fresher 
skies, 

Tipt  round  with  silver  from  the  sun's  bright 
eyes. 

Still  downward  with  capacious  whirl  they 
glide ; 

And  now  I  see  them  on  a  green-hill's  side 

In  breezy  rest  among  the  nodding  stalks. 

The  charioteer  with  wond'rous  gesture 
talks 

To  the  trees  and  mountains;  and  there  soon 
appear 

Shapes  of  delight,  of  mystery,  and  fear, 

Passing  along  before  a  dusky  space 

Made  by  some  mighty  oaks:  as  they  would 
chase  140 

Some  ever-fleeting  music,  on  they  sweep. 

Lo  !  how  they  murmur,  laugh,  and  smile, 
and  weep: 

Some  with  upholden  hand  and  mouth  severe ; 

Some  with  their  faces  muffled  to  the  ear 

Between  their  arms;  some,  clear  in  youth- 
ful bloom, 

Go  glad  and  smilingly  athwart  the  gloom ; 

Some  looking  back,  and  some  with  upward 
gaze; 

Yes,  thousands  in  a  thousand  different  ways 

Flit  onward  —  now  a  lovely  wreath  of  girls 

Dancing  their  sleek  hair  into  tangled  curls ; 

And  now  broad  wings.  Most  awfully  in- 
tent 151 

The  driver  of  those  steeds  is  forward  bent, 

And  seems  to  listen:  O  that  I  might  know 

All  that  he  writes  with  such  a  hurrying 
glow. 

The  visions  all  are  fled  —  the  car  is  fled 
Into  the  light  of  heaven,  and  in  their  stead 
A  sense  of  real  things  comes  doubly  strong. 
And,  like  a  muddy  stream,  would  bear 

along 

My  soul  to  nothingness:  but  I  will  strive 
Against  all  doubtings,  and  will  keep  alive 
The  thought  of  that  same  chariot,  and  the 
strange  161 

Journey  it  went. 


Is  there  so  small  a  range 
In  the  present  strength  of  manhood,  that 

the  high 

Imagination  cannot  freely  fly 
As   she   was   wont  of   old  ?    prepare   her 

steeds, 
Paw  up  against  the  light,  and  do  strange 

deeds 
Upon  the  clouds  ?     Has  she  not  shewn  us 

all? 

From  the  clear  space  of  ether,  to  the  small 
Breath  of  new  buds  unfolding  ?     From  the 

meaning 
Of  Jove's   large   eyebrow,  to   the   tender 

greening  I70 

Of  April  meadows  ?  here  her  altar  shone, 
E'en  in  this  isle;  and  who  could  paragon 
The  fervid  choir  that  lifted  up  a  noise 
Of  harmony,  to  where  it  aye  will  poise 
Its  mighty  self  of  convoluting  sound, 
Huge  as  a  planet,  and  like  that  roll  round, 
Eternally  around  a  dizzy  void  ? 
Ay,  in  those  days  the    Muses  were   nigh 

cloy'd 

With  honours;  nor  had  any  other  care 
Than  to  sing  out  and  soothe  their  wavy 

hair.  180 

Could  all   this   be   forgotten?     Yes,   a 
schism 

Nurtured  by  foppery  and  barbarism, 

Made  great  Apollo  blush  for  this  his  land. 

Men  were  thought  wise  who  could  not  un- 
derstand 

His  glories:  with  a  puling  infant's  force 

They  sway'd  about  upon  a  rocking-horse, 

And  thought  it  Pegasus.  Ah,  dismal-soul'd  ! 

The    winds    of    heaven    blew,    the    ocean 
roll'd 

Its  gathering  waves  —  ye  felt  it  not.     The 

blue 

j  Bared  its  eternal  bosom,  and  the  dew       190 
j  Of  summer  nights  collected  still  to  make 

The  morning  precious:  beauty  was  awake  ! 

Why  were  ye  not  awake  ?     But  ye  were 
dead 

To  things  ye  knew  not  of,  —  were  closely 
wed 


SLEEP   AND    POETRY 


21 


To  musty  laws   lined  out   with  wretched 

rule 
And  compass  vile:   so   that  ye   taught  a 

school 
Of  dolts  to  smooth,  inlay,  and   clip,  and 

fit, 

Till,  like  the  certain  wands  of  Jacob's  wit, 
Their  verses  tallied.     Easy  was  the  task: 
A  thousand  handicraftsmen  wore  the  mask 
Of  Poesy.     Ill-fated,  impious  race  !          201 
That  blasphem'd  the  bright  Lyrist  to  his 

face, 

And  did  not  know  it,  —  no,  they  went  about, 
Holding  a  poor,  decrepid  standard  out, 
Mark'd  with  most  flimsy  mottoes,   and  in 

large 
The  name  of  one  Boileau  ! 

O  ye  whose  charge 

It  is  to  hover  round  our  pleasant  hills  ! 
Whose  congregated  majesty  so  fills 
My  boundly  reverence,  that  I  cannot  trace 
Your  hallowed  names,  in  this  unholy  place, 
So  near  those  common  folk;  did  not  their 

shames  211 

Affright   you  ?       Did   our   old   lamenting 

Thames 

Delight  you  ?  did  ye  never  cluster  round 
Delicious  Avon,  with  a  mournful  sound, 
And  weep  ?     Or  did  ye  wholly  bid  adieu 
To  regions  where  no  more  the  laurel  grew  ? 
Or  did  ye  stay  to  give  a  welcoming 
To   some  lone  spirits  who  could   proudly 

sing 
Their  youth  away,  and  die  ?     'T  was  even 

so:  219 

But  let  me  think  away  those  times  of  woe: 
Now  't  is  a  fairer  season ;  ye  have  breathed 
Rich  benedictions  o'er  us;  ye  have  wreathed 
Fresh  garlands:  for  sweet  music  has  been 

heard 

In  many  places;  —  some  has  been  upstirr'd 
From  out  its  crystal  dwelling  in  a  lake, 
By  a  swan's  ebon  bill ;  from  a  thick  brake, 
Nested  and  quiet  in  a  valley  mild, 
Bubbles  a  pipe;  fine  sounds   are   floating 

wild 
A.bout  the  earth:  happy  are  ye  and  glad. 


These  things  are,  doubtless;  yet  in  truth 

we  've  had  230 

Strange  thunders  from  the  potency  of  song; 
Mingled  indeed  with  what   is  sweet   and 

strong 

From  majesty:  but  in  clear  truth  the  themes 
Are  ugly  clubs,  the  Poets  Polyphemes 
Disturbing   the   grand   sea.      A   drainless 

shower 
Of   light   is   Poesy;   'tis  the    supreme   of 

power; 
'T  is  might  half  slumb'ring  on  its  own  right 

arm. 

The  very  archings  of  her  eyelids  charm 
A  thousand  willing  agents  to  obey, 
And  still  she  governs  with  the  mildest  sway: 
But  strength  alone  though   of  the  Muses 

born  241 

Is  like  a  fallen  angel:  trees  uptorn, 
Darkness,    and    worms,  and   shrouds,  and 

sepulchres 

Delight  it;  for  it  feeds  upon  the  burrs 
And  thorns  of   life;  forgetting  the  great 

end 

Of  Poesy,  that  it  should  be  a  friend 
To  soothe  the  cares,  and  lift  the .  thoughts 

of  man. 

Yet  I  rejoice:  a  myrtle  fairer  than       248 
E'er  grew  in  Paphos,  from  the  bitter  weeds 
Lifts  its  sweet  head  into  the  air,  and  feeds 
A  silent  space  with  ever  sprouting  green. 
All  tenderest  birds  there  find  a  pleasant 

screen, 

Creep  through  the  shade  with  jaunty  flut- 
tering, 

Nibble  the  little  cupped  flowers  and  sing. 
Then  let  us  clear  away  the  choking  thorns 
From  round  its  gentle  stem;  let  the  young 

fawns, 

Yeaned  in  after-times,  when  we  are  flown, 
Find  a  fresh  sward  beneath  it,  overgrown 
With  simple  flowers:  let  there  nothing  be 
More  boisterous  than  a  lover's  bended  knee ; 
Nought  more  ungentle  than  the  placid  look 
Of  one  who  leans  upon  a  closed  book;      262 
Nought  more  untranquil  than  the  grassy 
slopes 


22 


EARLY   POEMS 


Between   two   hills.     All   hail,   delightful 

hopes  ! 

As  she  was  wont,  th'  imagination 
Into  most  lovely  labyrinths  will  be  gone, 
And  they  shall  be  accounted  poet  kings 
Who   simply   tell   the   most  heart -easing 

things. 
O  may  these  joys  be  ripe  before  I  die. 

Will  not  some    say  that  I  presumptu- 
ously 270 
Have  spoken  ?  that  from  hastening  disgrace 
'T  were  better  far  to  hide  my  foolish  face  ? 
That  whining  boyhood  should  with  rever- 
ence bow 
Ere  the  dread  thunderbolt  could  reach  ? 

How! 

If  I  do  hide  myself,  it  sure  shall  be 
In  the  very  fane,  the  light  of  Poesy  : 
If  I  do  fall,  at  least  I  will  be  laid 
Beneath  the  silence  of  a  poplar  shade  ; 
And  over  me  the  grass  shall  be  smooth 

shaven  ; 

And    there    shall    be    a    kind     memorial 
graven.  280 

But  off,  Despondence  !  miserable  bane  ! 
They  should  not  know  thee,  who  athirst  to 

gain 

A  noble  end,  are  thirsty  every  hour. 
What  though  I  am  not  wealthy  in  the  dower 
Of  spanning  wisdom  ;  though  I  do  not  know 
The  shiftings   of   the   mighty   winds   that 

blow 
Hither    and     thither     all     the     changing 

thoughts 

Of  man  :  though  no  great  minist'ring  rea- 
son sorts 

Out  the  dark  mysteries  of  human  souls 
To     clear     conceiving  :     yet     there    ever 
rolls  290 

A  vast  idea  before  me,  and  I  glean 
Therefrom   my  liberty  ;   thence   too   I  've 

seen 

The  end  and  aim  of  Poesy.     'T  is  clear 
As  anything  most  true  ;  as  that  the  year 
Is  made  of  the  four  seasons  —  manifest 
As   a  large   cross,   some    old    cathedral's 
crest, 


Lifted    to    the    white   clouds.     Therefore 

should  I 

Be  but  the  essence  of  deformity, 
A  coward,  did  my  very  eyelids  wink 
At   speaking   out  what   I   have   dared   to 

think.  3oo 

Ah  !  rather  let  me  like  a  madman  run 
Over  some  precipice  ;  let  the  hot  sun 
Melt  my  Da3dalian  wings,  and  drive  me 

down 

Convuls'd   and   headlong  !      Stay  !    an  in- 
ward frown 

Of  conscience  bids  me  be  more  calm  awhile. 
An   ocean   dim,   sprinkled    with   many  an 

isle, 
Spreads  awfully  before  me.     How  much 

toil ! 

How  many  days  !  what  desperate  turmoil ! 
Ere  I  can  have  explored  its  widenesses. 
Ah,    what     a     task !     upon     my    bended 

knees,  3 10 

I  could  unsay  those  —  no,  impossible  ! 
Impossible  ! 

For  sweet  relief  I  '11  dwell 
On  humbler  thoughts,  and  let  this  strange 

assay 

Begun  in  gentleness  die  so  away. 
E'en  now  all  tumult  from  my  bosom  fades  : 
I  turn  full-hearted  to  the  friendly  aids 
That  smooth  the  path  of  honour  ;  brother- 
hood, 

And  friendliness  the  nurse  of  mutual  good. 
The   hearty  grasp   that   sends  a  pleasant 

sonnet 

Into  the  brain  ere  one  can  think  upon  it;  320 
The  silence  when  some  rhymes  are  coming 

out ; 
And  when  they  're  come,  the  very  pleasant 

rout: 

The  message  certain  to  be  done  to-morrow. 
'T  is  perhaps  as  well  that  it  should  be  to 

borrow 
Some   precious   book    from   out    its    snug 

retreat, 
To   cluster   round  it  when  we  next  shall 

meet. 
Scarce  can  I  scribble  on  ;  for  lovely  airs 


SLEEP   AND   POETRY 


23 


Are  fluttering  round  the  room  like  doves  in 

pairs  ; 

Many  delights  of  that  glad  day  recalling, 
When  first  my  senses  caught  their  tender 

falling.  330 

And  with  these  airs  come  forms  of  elegance 
Stooping    their    shoulders    o'er   a   horse's 

prance, 
Careless,    and    grand  —  fingers    soft    and 

round 
Parting  luxuriant  curls  ;  —  and  the  swift 

bound 

Of  Bacchus  from  his  chariot,  when  his  eye 
Made  Ariadne's  cheek  look  blushingly. 
Thus  I  remember  all  the  pleasant  flow 
Of  words  at  opening  a  portfolio. 

Things  such  as  these  are  ever  harbingers 
To  trains  of  peaceful  images  :  the  stirs  340 
Of  a  swan's  neck  unseen  among  the  rushes  : 
A  linnet  starting  all  about  the  bushes  : 
A    butterfly,    with    golden    wings    broad 

parted, 
Nestling   a   rose,  convuls'd   as   though   it 

smarted 

With  over  pleasure  —  many,  many  more, 
Might  I  indulge  at  large  in  all  my  store 
Of  luxuries  :  yet  I  must  not  forget 
Sleep,  quiet  with  his  poppy  coronet : 
For  what  there  may  be  worthy  in  these 

rhymes 
I    partly   owe    to    him  :     and    thus,    the 

chimes  350 

Of  friendly  voices  had  just  given  place 
To  as  sweet  a  silence,  when  I  'gan  retrace 
The  pleasant  day,  upon  a  couch  at  ease. 
It  was  a  poet's  house  who  keeps  the  keys 
Of  pleasure's  temple.     Round  about  were 

hung 
The   glorious   features   of  the  bards  who 

sung 

In  other  ages  —  cold  and  sacred  busts 
Smiled  at  each  other.    Happy  he  who  trusts 
To  clear  Futurity  his  darling  fame  ! 
Then  there  were  fauns  and  satyrs  taking 

aim  36o 

At  swelling  apples  with  a  frisky  leap 
And  reaching  fingers,  'mid  a  luscious  heap 


Of  vine  leaves.     Then  there  rose  to  view  a 

fane 

Of  liny  marble,  and  thereto  a  train 
Of    nymphs   approaching   fairly   o'er  the 

sward  : 
One,   loveliest,    holding    her    white    hand 

toward 

The  dazzling  sunrise  :  two  sisters  sweet 
Bending  their  graceful  figures  till  they  meet 
Over  the  trippings  of  a  little  child  : 
And  some  are  hearing,  eagerly,  the  wild  370 
Thrilling  liquidity  of  dewy  piping. 
See,  in  another  picture,  nymphs  are  wiping 
Cherishingly  Diana's  timorous  limbs  ;  — 
A  fold  of  lawny  mantle  dabbling  swims 
At   the    bath's   edge,  and   keeps  a  gentle 

motion 

With  the  subsiding  crystal  :  as  when  ocean 
Heaves  calmly  its  broad  swelling  smooth- 

iness  o'er 

Its  rocky  marge,  and  balances  once  more 
The  patient  weeds  ;  that  now  unshent  by 

foam 
Feel  all  about  their  undulating  home.      380 

Sappho's  meek  head  was  there  half  smiling 

down 
At   nothing ;   just   as  though  the  earnest 

frown 

Of  over-thinking  had  that  moment  gone 
From  off  her  brow,  and  left  her  all  alone. 

Great  Alfred's  too,  with  anxious,  pitying 

eyes, 

As  if  he  always  listened  to  the  sighs 
Of  the   goaded  world ;  and   Kosciusko's, 

worn 
By  horrid  suffrance  —  mightily  forlorn. 

Petrarch,   outstepping   from   the   shady 

green, 
Starts  at  the   sight  of    Laura ;    nor  can 

wean  390 

His  eyes  from  her  sweet  face.     Most  happy 

they! 

For  over  them  was  seen  a  free  display 
Of  outspread  wings,  and  from  between  them 

shone 


EARLY   POEMS 


The  face  of  Poesy  :  from  off  her  throne 
She  overlook'd  things  that  I  scarce  could 

tell. 

The  very  sense  of  where  I  was  might  well 
Keep  Sleep  aloof  :  but  more  than  that  there 

came 
Thought  after  thought  to  nourish  up  the 

flame 
Within  my  breast ;   so  that   the   morning 

light 
Surprised    me     even     from     a     sleepless 

night ;  4oo 

And  up  I  rose  refresh'd,  and  glad,  and  gay, 
Resolving  to  begin  that  very  day 
These  lines  ;  and  howsoever  they  be  done, 
I  leave  them  as  a  father  does  his  son. 


EPISTLE   TO   MY   BROTHER 
GEORGE 

Written  according  to  George  Keats  at  Mar- 
gate, August,  1816,  and  included  in  the  1817 
volume. 

FULL  many  a  dreary  hour  have  I  past, 
My  brain  bewilder'd,  and  my  mind  o'ercast 
With    heaviness;    in    seasons   when    I've 

thought 
No  spherey  strains  by  me  could  e'er  be 

caught 
From  the  blue  dome,  though  I  to  dimness 

gaze 
On  the  far  depth  where  sheeted  lightning 


Or,  on  the  wavy  grass  outstretch'd  supinely, 
Pry  'mong  the  stars,  to  strive  to  think  di- 
vinely: 

That  I  should  never  hear  Apollo's  song, 
Though  feathery  clouds  were  floating  all 
along  10 

The  purple  west,  and,  two  bright  streaks 

between, 

The  golden  lyre  itself  were  dimly  seen: 
That  the  still  murmur  of  the  honey  bee 
Would  never  teach  a  rural  song  to  me: 
That  the  bright  glance  from  beauty's  eye- 
lids slanting 
Would  never  make  a  lay  of  mine  enchanting, 


Or  warm  my  breast  with  ardour  to  unfold 
Some  tale  of  love  and  arms  in  time  of  old. 

But  there  are  times,  when  those  that  love 

the  bay, 

Fly  from  all  sorrowing  far,  far  away;        20 
A   sudden   glow   comes   on   them,  nought 

they  see 

In  water,  earth,  or  air,  but  poesy. 
It  has  been  said,  dear  George,  and  true  I 

hold  it, 

(For  knightly  Spenser  to  Libertas  told  it,) 
That  when  a  Poet  is  in  such  a  trance, 
In   air   he   sees   white   coursers   paw   and 

prance, 

Bestridden  of  gay  knights,  in  gay  apparel, 
Who  at  each  other  tilt  in  playful  quarrel; 
And  what  we,  ignorantly,  sheet-lightning 

call, 

Is  the  swift  opening  of  their  wide  portal,  30 
When  the  bright  warder  blows  his  trumpet 

clear, 
Whose  tones  reach  nought  on  earth  but 

Poet's  ear. 

When  these  enchanted  portals  open  wide, 
And  through  the  light  the  horsemen  swiftly 

glide, 

The  Poet's  eye  can  reach  those  golden  halls, 
And  view  the  glory  of  their  festivals: 
Their  ladies  fair,  that  in  the  distance  seem 
Fit  for  the  silv'ring  of  a  seraph's  dream; 
Their  rich  brimm'd  goblets,  that  incessant 

run 
Like  the  bright  spots  that  move  about  the 

sun;  4o 

And,   when    upheld,   the  wine  from   each 

bright  jar 

Pours  with  the  lustre  of  a  falling  star. 
Yet  further  off  are  dimly  seen  their  bowers, 
Of  which  no  mortal  eye  can  reach  the  flow- 
ers; 

And  't  is  right  just,  for  well  Apollo  knows 
'T  would  make  the  Poet  quarrel  with  the 

rose. 
All  that 's  reveal'd  from  that  far  seat  of 

blisses, 

Is,  the  clear  fountains'  interchanging  kisses, 
As  gracefully  descending,  light  and  thin, 


EPISTLE  TO   MY   BROTHER   GEORGE 


2S 


Like  silver  streaks  across  a  dolphin's  fin,  50 
When  he  upswimmeth  from  the  coral  caves, 
And   sports  with  half   his  tail  above  the 
waves. 

These  wonders  strange  he  sees,  and  many 

more, 

Whose  head  is  pregnant  with  poetic  lore. 
Should  he  upon  an  evening  ramble  fare 
With  forehead  to  the  soothing  breezes  bare, 
Would  he  naught  see  but  the  dark,  silent 

blue, 
With  all  its  diamonds  trembling  through 

and  through  ? 

Or  the  coy  moon,  when  in  the  waviness    59 
Of  whitest  clouds  she  does  her  beauty  dress, 
And  staidly  paces  higher  up,  and  higher, 
Like  a  sweet  nun  in  holiday  attire  ? 
Ah,  yes  !  much  more  would  start  into  his 

sight  — 

The  revelries,  and  mysteries  of  night: 
And  should  I  ever  see  them,  I  will  tell  you 
Such  tales  as  needs  must  with  amazement 

spell  you. 

These  are   the   living  pleasures  of   the 

bard: 

But  richer  far  posterity's  award. 
What  does  he  murmur  with  his  latest  breath, 
While  his  proud  eye  looks  through  the  film 

of  death  ?  7o 

-  What  though  I  leave  this  dull  and  earthly 

mould, 

Yet  shall  my  spirit  lofty  converse  hold 
With  after  times.  —  The  patriot  shall  feel 
My  stern  alarum,  and  unsheath  his  steel; 
Or  in  the  senate  thunder  out  my  numbers, 
To  startle  princes  from  their  easy  slumbers. 
The  sage  will  mingle  with  each  moral  theme 
My   happy   thoughts    sententious;   he  will 

teem 
With  lofty  periods    when  my  verses   fire 

him, 
And  then  I  '11  stoop  from  heaven  to  inspire 

him.  80 

Lays  have  I  left  of  such  a  dear  delight 
That  maids  will  sing  them  on  their  bridal 

night. 


Gay  villagers,  upon  a  morn  of  May, 
When  they  have  tired  their  gentle  limbs 

with  play, 

And  form'd  a  snowy  circle  on  the  grass, 
And  plac'd  in  midst  of  all  that  lovely  lass 
Who  chosen  is  their  queen,  —  with  her  fine 

head 
Crowned  with  flowers  purple,  white,  and 

red: 

For  there  the  lily,  and  the  musk-rose,  sigh- 
ing, 89 
Are  emblems  true  of  hapless  lovers  dying: 
Between  her  breasts,  that  never  yet  felt 

trouble, 

A  bunch  of  violets  full  blown,  and  double, 
Serenely  sleep :  —  she  from  a  casket  takes 
A  little  book,  —  and  then  a  joy  awakes 
About  each  youthful  heart,  —  with  stifled 

cries, 
And  rubbing  of  white  hands,  and  sparkling 

eyes: 

For  she  's  to  read  a  tale  of  hopes  and  fears ; 
One  that  I  foster'd  in  my  youthful  years: 
The  pearls,  that  on  each  glist'ning  circlet 


Gush  ever  and  anon  with  silent  creep,      100 

Lured  by  the  innocent  dimples.  To  sweet 
rest 

Shall  the  dear  babe,  upon  its  mother's 
breast, 

Be  lull'd  with  songs  of  mine.  Fair  world, 
adieu  ! 

Thy  dales  and  hills  are  fading  from  my 
view: 

Swiftly  I  mount,  upon  wide-spreading 
pinions, 

Far  from  the  narrow  bounds  of  thy  do- 
minions. 

Full  joy  I  feel,  while  thus  I  cleave  the  air, 

That  my  soft  verse  will  charm  thy  daugh- 
ters fair, 

And  warm  thy  sons  ! '  Ah,  my  dear  friend 
and  brother,  I09 

Could  I,  at  once,  my  mad  ambition  smother, 

For  tasting  joys  like  these,  sure  I  should  be 

Happier,  and  dearer  to  society. 

At  times,  Jt  is  true,  I  've  felt  relief  from 
pain 


26 


EARLY   POEMS 


When   some    bright   thought   has    darted 

through  my  brain: 
Through  all  that  day  I  've  felt  a  greater 

pleasure 

Than  if  I  'd  brought  to  light  a  hidden  trea- 
sure. 
As  to  my  sonnets,  though  none  else  should 

heed  them, 
I  feel  delighted,  still,  that  you  should  read 

them. 

Of  late,  too,  I  have  had  much  calm  enjoy- 
ment, 

Stretch'd  on  the  grass  at  my  best  lov'd  em- 
ployment 120 
Of  scribbling  lines  for  you.     These  things 

I  thought 
While,  in  my  face,  the  freshest  breeze  I 

caught. 

E'en  now  I  'm  pillow'd  on  a  bed  of  flowers 
That  crowns  a  lofty  cliff,  which  proudly 

towers 
Above  the  ocean  waves.     The  stalks  and 

blades 
Chequer   my  tablet  with   their   quivering 

shades. 

On  one  side  is  a  field  of  drooping  oats, 
Through   which   the    poppies    show   their 

scarlet  coats;  128 

So  pert  and  useless,  that  they  bring  to  mind 
The  scarlet  coats  that  pester  human-kind. 
And  on  the  other  side,  outspread,  is  seen 
Ocean's  blue  mantle,  streak'd  with  purple, 

and  green; 

Now  't  is  I  see  a  canvass'd  ship,  and  now 
Mark  the  bright  silver  curling  round  her 

prow. 

I  see  the  lark  down-dropping  to  his  nest, 
And  the  broad- winged  sea-gull  never  at  rest; 
For  when  no  more  he  spreads  his  feathers 

free, 

His  breast  is  dancing  on  the  restless  sea. 
Now  I  direct  my  eyes  into  the  west, 
Which   at   this   moment   is    in    sunbeams 

drest:  140 

Why  westward  turn  ?     'T  was  but  to  say 

adieu  ! 
T  was  but  to  kiss  my  hand,  dear  George, 

to  you ! 


TO  MY  BROTHER  GEORGE 

The  first  in  the  group  of  sonnets  in  the  1817 
volume.  A  transcript  by  George  Keats  bears 
the  date  '  Margate,  August,  1810.' 

MANY  the  wonders  I  this  day  have  seen: 
The  sun,  when  first  he  kist  away  the  tears 
That  fill'd  the  eyes  of  morn;  — the  lau- 

rell'd  peers 
Who  from  the  feathery   gold  of  evening 

lean ; — 

The  ocean  with  its  vastness,  its  blue  green, 
Its  ships,  its  rocks,  its  caves,  its  hopes, 

its  fears,  — 

Its  voice  mysterious,  which  whoso  hears 
Must  think  on  what  will  be,  and  what  has 

been. 
E'en  now,  dear  George,  while  this  for  you  I 

write, 

Cynthia  is  from  her  silken  curtains  peep- 
ing 

So  scantly,  that  it  seems  her  bridal  night, 
And  she  her  half-discover'd  revels  keep- 
ing. 
But  what,  without  the  social   thought  of 

thee, 
Would  be  the  wonders  of  the  sky  and  sea  ? 


TO  

There  is  no  clue  to  the  identity  of  the  per- 
son addressed  and  no  date  is  affixed.  It  was 
published  in  the  1817  volume,  and  there  follows 
the  one  addressed  to  his  brother  George. 

HAD  I  a  man's  fair  form,  then  might  my 

sighs 
Be   echoed   swiftly  through   that   ivory 

shell 
Thine  ear,  and  find  thy  gentle  heart;  so 

well 

Would  passion  arm  me  for  the  enterprise: 
But  ah  !  I  am  no  knight  whose  foeman  dies; 
No  cuirass  glistens  on  my  bosom's  swell; 
I  am  no  happy  shepherd  of  the  dell 
Whose  lips  have  trembled  with  a  maiden's 
eyes. 


SPECIMEN   OF   AN   INDUCTION   TO   A   POEM 


Yet  must  I   dote  upon  thee,  —  call  thee 

sweet, 

Sweeter  by  far  than  Hybla's  honied  roses 
When  steep'd  in  dew  rich  to  intoxica- 
tion. 

Ah !  I  will  taste  that  dew,  for  me  't  is  meet, 
And  when  the  moon  her  pallid  face  dis- 
closes, 

I  '11  gather  some  by  spells,  and  incan- 
tation. 


SPECIMEN    OF    AN    INDUCTION 
TO   A   POEM 

This  poem  was  published  in  the  1817  volume 
where  it  immediately  precedes  Calidore.  Leigh 
Hunt,  when  reviewing  the  volume  on  its  ap- 
pearance, speaks  of  the  two  poems  as  connected, 
and  in  Tom  Keats's  copybook  they  are  written 
continuously.  The  same  copy  contains  a  memo- 
randum '  marked  by  Leigh  Hunt  —  1816.' 

Lo  !  I  must  tell  a  tale  of  chivalry; 

For  large  white  plumes  are  dancing  in  mine 

eye. 

Not  like  the  formal  crest  of  latter  days: 
But  bending  in  a  thousand  graceful  ways; 
So  graceful,  that  it  seems  no  mortal  hand, 
Or  e'en  the  touch  of  Archimago's  wand, 
Could  charm  them  into  such  an  attitude. 
We  must  think  rather,  that  in  playful  mood, 
Some  mountain  breeze  had  turned  its  chief 

delight, 

To  show  this  wonder  of  its  gentle  might.    10 
Lo  !  I  must  tell  a  tale  of  chivalry; 
For  while  I  muse,  the  lance  points  slant- 
ingly 

Athwart  the  morning  air;  some  lady  sweet, 
Who  cannot  feel  for  cold  her  tender  feet, 
From  the  worn  top  of  some  old  battlement 
Hails  it  with  tears,  her  stout  defender  sent: 
And  from  her  own  pure  self  no  joy  dissem- 
bling, 
Wraps  round  her  ample  robe  with  happy 

trembling. 
Sometimes,  when  the  good  Knight  his  rest 

would  take, 
It  is  reflected,  clearly,  in  a  lake,  20 


With    the   young    ashen    boughs,    'gainst 

which  it  rests, 
And  th'   half -seen   mossiness  of  linnets' 

nests. 

Ah  !  shall  I  ever  tell  its  cruelty, 
When  the  fire  flashes  from  a  warrior's  eye, 
And  his  tremendous  hand  is  grasping  it, 
And  his  dark  brow  for  very  wrath  is  knit  ? 
Or  when  his  spirit,  with  more  calm  intent, 
Leaps  to  the  honours  of  a  tournament, 
And   makes   the   gazers  round   about  the 

ring 

Stare  at  the  grandeur  of  the  balancing  ?   30 
No,  no  !  this  is  far  off:  —  then  how  shall  I 
Revive  the  dying  tones  of  minstrelsy, 
Which  linger  yet  about  long  gothic  arches, 
In  dark  green  ivy,  and  among  wild  larches  ? 
How  sing  the  splendour  of  the  revelries, 
When  butts  of  wine  are  drunk  off  to  the 

lees? 
And  that  bright  lance,  against  the  fretted 

wall, 

Beneath  the  shade  of  stately  banneral, 
Is  slung  with  shining  cuirass,  sword,  and 

shield  ? 

Where  ye  may  see  a  spur  in  bloody  field.    4o 
Light-footed    damsels    move   with    gentle 

paces 
Round  the  wide  hall,  and  show  their  happy 

faces; 

Or  stand  in  courtly  talk  by  fives  and  sevens: 
Like  those  fair  stars  that  twirikle  in  the 

heavens. 

Yet  must  I  tell  a  tale  of  chivalry: 
Or  wherefore  comes  that  knight  so  proudly 

by? 
Wherefore  more  proudly  does  the  gentle 

knight, 
Rein  in  the  swelling  of  his  ample  might  ? 

Spenser  !  thy  brows  are  arched,  open,  kind, 
And   come    like   a   clear    sunrise    to    my 

mind;  50 

And  always  does  my  heart  with  pleasure 

dance, 

When  I  think  on  thy  noble  countenance: 
Where  never  yet  was  ought  more  earthly 

seen 


28 


EARLY   POEMS 


Than   the   pure   freshness   of   thy   laurels 

green. 

Therefore,  great  bard,  I  not  so  fearfully 
Call  on  thy  gentle  spirit  to  hover  nigh 
My  daring  steps  :  or  if  thy  tender  care, 
Thus  startled  unaware, 
Be  jealous  that  the  foot  of  other  wight 
Should  madly  follow  that  bright  path  of 

light  60 

Trac'd    by   thy   lov'd    Libertas;     he   will 

speak, 

And  tell  thee  that  my  prayer  is  very  meek; 
That  I  will  follow  with  due  reverence, 
And  start  with  awe  at  mine  own  strange 

pretence. 

Him  thou  wilt  hear;  so  I  will  rest  in  hope 
To  see  wide  plains,  fair  trees,  and  lawny 

slope: 
The  morn,  the  eve,  the  light,  the  shade,  the 

flowers ; 

Clear  streams,  smooth  lakes,  and  overlook- 
ing towers. 

CALIDORE 

A  FRAGMENT 

YOUNG  Calidore  is  paddling  o'er  the  lake  ; 
His  healthful  spirit  eager  and  awake 
To  feel  the  beauty  of  a  silent  eve, 
Which  seem'd  full  loth  this  happy  world  to 

leave; 
The  light  dwelt  o'er  the  scene  so  linger- 

ingly. 

He  bares  his  forehead  to  the  cool  blue  sky, 
And  smiles  at  the  far  clearness  all  around, 
Until  his  heart  is  well  nigh  over  wound, 
And   turns   for   calmness  to  the  pleasant 

green 
Of  easy  slopes,  and   shadowy  trees  that 

lean  10 

So  elegantly  o'er  the  waters'  brim 
And  show  their  blossoms  trim. 
Scarce  can  his  clear  and  nimble  eyesight 

follow 
The  freaks  and  dartings  of  the  black-wing'd 

swallow, 
Delighting  much,  to  see  it  half  at  rest, 


Dip  so  refreshingly  its  wings,  and  breast 
'Gainst  the  smooth  surface,  and  to  mark 

anon, 
The  widening  circles  into  nothing  gone. 

And  now  the  sharp  keel  of  his  little  boat 
Comes    up    with    ripple,  and    with    easy 
float,  20 

And  glides  into  a  bed  of  water-lilies: 
Broad-leav'd  are  they,  and  their  white  can- 
opies 
Are  upward  turn'd  to  catch  the  heavens' 

dew. 

Near  to  a  little  island's  point  they  grew; 
Whence  Calidore  might  have  the  goodliest 

view 
Of  this  sweet  spot  of  earth.     The  bowery 

shore 

Went  off  in  gentle  windings  to  the  hoar 
And  light  blue  mountains  :  but  no  breath- 
ing man 

With  a  warm  heart,  and  eye  prepared  to  scan 
Nature's  clear  beauty,  could  pass  lightly 
by  30 

Objects  that  look'd  out  so  invitingly 
On  either  side.     These,  gentle  Calidore 
Greeted,  as  he  had  known  them  long  before. 

The  sidelong  view  of  swelling  leanness, 
Which  the  glad  setting  sun  in  gold  doth 

dress; 

Whence,  ever  and  anon,  the  jay  outsprings, 
And  scales  upon  the  beauty  of  its  wings. 

The  lonely  turret,  shatter'd,  and  outworn, 
Stands   venerably   proud;     too    proud    to 

mourn 
Its    long    lost    grandeur :    fir-trees    grow 

around,  40 

Aye   dropping  their  hard  fruit  upon  the 

ground. 

The  little  chapel,  with  the  cross  above, 
Upholding  wreaths  of  ivy;  the  white  dove, 
That  on  the  windows  spreads  his  feathers 

light, 
And  seems  from  purple  clouds  to  wing  its 

flight. 


CALIDORE 


29 


Green  tufted  islands  casting  their  soft 

shades 

Across  the  lake;  sequester'd  leafy  glades, 
That  through  the  dimness  of  their  twilight 

show 
Large  dock-leaves,  spiral  foxgloves,  or  the 

glow 

Of  the  wild  cat's-eyes,  or  the  silvery  stems 
Of  delicate  birch-trees,  or  long  grass  which 

hems  51 

A  little  brook.     The  youth  had  long  been 

viewing 
These    pleasant    things,  and    heaven    was 

bedewing 
The  mountain  flowers,  when  his  glad  senses 

caught 
A    trumpet's    silver    voice.     Ah !    it   was 

fraught 

With  many  joys  for  him  :  the  warder's  ken 
Had  found  white  coursers  prancing  in  the 

glen: 

Friends  very  dear  to  him  he  soon  will  see ; 
So  pushes  off  his  boat  most  eagerly, 
And  soon  upon  the  lake  he  skims  along,    60 
Deaf  to  the  nightingale's  first  under-song; 
Nor  minds  he  the  white  swans  that  dream 

so  sweetly: 
His  spirit  flies  before  him  so  completely. 

And  now  he  turns  a  jutting  point  of  land, 
Whence  may  be  seen  the  castle  gloomy,  and 

grand : 
Nor  will  a  bee  buzz  round  two  swelling 

peaches, 

Before  the  point  of  his  light  shallop  reaches 
Those  marble  steps  that  through  the  water 

dip: 

Now  over  them  he  goes  with  hasty  trip, 
And    scarcely    stays    to    ope    the   folding 

doors:  70 

Anon  he  leaps  along  the  oaken  floors 
Of  halls  and  corridors. 

Delicious  sounds !  those  little  bright-eyed 

things 

That  float  about  the  air  on  azure  wings, 
Had  been  less  heartfelt  by  him  than  the 

clang 


Of    clattering   hoofs;     into   the   court   he 

sprang, 

Just  as  two  noble  ste«ds,  and  palfreys  twain, 
Were  slanting  out  their  necks  with  loosen 'd 

rein; 

While  from  beneath  the  threat'ning  port- 
cullis 
They  brought  their  happy  burthens.    What 

a  kiss,  go 

What  gentle  squeeze  he  gave  each  lady's 

hand  ! 
How    tremblingly    their    delicate    ankles 

spann'd  ! 

Into  how  sweet  a  trance  his  soul  was  gone, 
While  whisperings  of  affection 
Made  him  delay  to  let  their  tender  feet 
Come  to  the  earth;  with  an  incline  so  sweet 
From  their  low  palfreys  o'er  his  neck  they 

bent: 
And  whether  there  were  tears  of  languish- 

ment, 
Or  that  the  evening  dew  had  pearl'd  their 

tresses, 
He   feels   a   moisture   on   his   cheek,   and 

blesses  90 

With  lips  that  tremble,  and  with  glistening 

eye, 

All  the  soft  luxury 

That  nestled  in  his  arms.     A  dimpled  hand, 
Fair  as  some  wonder  out  of  fairy  land, 
Hung  from  his  shoulder  like  the  drooping 

flowers 
Of   whitest    Cassia,    fresh    from    summer 

showers : 

And  this  he  fondled  with  his  happy  cheek, 
As  if  for  joy  he  would  no  further  seek; 
When  the  kind  voice  of  good  Sir  Clerimond 
Came  to  his  ear,  like  something  from  be- 
yond 100 

His  present  being:  so  he  gently  drew 

His  warm  arms,  thrilling  now  with  pulses 

new, 
From  their  sweet  thrall,  and  forward  gently 

bending, 
Thank'd  Heaven  that  his  joy  was  never 

ending; 
While    'gainst   his   forehead   he   devoutly 

press'd 


3° 


EARLY    POEMS 


A  hand  Heaven  made  to  succour  the  dis- 
tress'd; 

A  hand  that  from  the  world's  bleak  promon- 
tory 

Had  lifted  Calidore  for  deeds  of  glory. 

Amid  the  pages,  and  the  torches'  glare, 
There  stood  a  knight,  patting  the  flowing 

hair  no 

Of  his  proud  horse's  mane:  he  was  withal 
A  man  of  elegance,  and  stature  tall: 
So  that  the  waving  of  his  plumes  would  be 
High  as  the  berries  of  a  wild  ash-tree, 
Or  as  the  winged  cap  of  Mercury. 
His  armour  was  so  dexterously  wrought 
In   shape,   that   sure   no   living  man   had 

thought 

It  hard,  and  heavy  steel:  but  that  indeed 
It  was  some  glorious  form,  some  splendid 

weed, 
In   which   a   spirit   new   come    from    the 

skies  120 

Might  live,  and  show  itself  to  human  eyes. 
>Tis  the  far-fam'd,  the  brave  Sir  Gondi- 

bert, 

Said  the  good  man  to  Calidore  alert; 
While  the  young  warrior  with  a  step  of 

grace 

Came  up,  —  a  courtly  smile  upon  his  face, 
And  mailed  hand  held  out,  ready  to  greet 
The  large-eyed  wonder,  and  ambitious  heat 
Of  the  aspiring  boy;  who  as  he  led 
Those  smiling  ladies,  often  turned  his  head 
To  admire  the  visor  arched  so  gracefully   130 
Over  a  knightly  brow;  while  they  went  by 
The  lamps  that  from  the  high-roof 'd  hall 

were  pendent, 

And  gave  the  steel  a  shining  quite  tran- 
scendent. 

Soon  in  a  pleasant  chamber  they  are 

seated  ; 
The     sweet-lipp'd     ladies    have     already 

greeted 
All  the  green  leaves  that  round  the  window 

clamber, 
To  show  their  purple  stars,  and  bells  of 

amber. 


Sir  Gondibert  has  doff'd  his  shining  steel, 
Gladdening  in  the  free,  and  airy  feel 
Of  a  light  mantle ;  and  while  Clerimond    140 
Is  looking  round  about  him  with  a  fond 
And  placid  eye,  young  Calidore  is  burning 
To   hear   of   knightly  deeds,  and   gallant 

spurning 
Of  all  un worthiness;  and  how  the  strong  of 

arm 

Kept  off  dismay,  and  terror,  and  alarm 
From  lovely  woman:  while  brimful  of  this, 
He  gave  each  damsel's  hand  so  warm  a  kiss, 
And  had  such  manly  ardour  in  his  eye, 
That  each  at  other  look'd  half-staringly; 
And    then    their     features     started     into 

smiles,  150 

Sweet  as  blue  heavens  o'er  enchanted  isles. 

Softly  the  breezes  from  the  forest  came, 

Softly  they  blew  aside  the  taper's  flame; 

Clear  was  the  song  from  Philomel's  far 
bower; 

Grateful  the  incense  from  the  lime-tree 
flower; 

Mysterious,  wild,  the  far  heard  trumpet's 
tone; 

Lovely  the  moon  in  ether,  all  alone: 

Sweet  too  the  converse  of  these  happy  mor- 
tals, 

As  that  of  busy  spirits  when  the  portals 

Are  closing  in  the  west;  or  that  soft  hum- 
ming 1 60 

We  hear  around  when  Hesperus  is  coming. 

Sweet  be  their  sleep.  .  .  . 


EPISTLE     TO     CHARLES 
COWDEN    CLARKE 

This  epistle  printed  in  the  1817  volume  is 
there  dated  September,  1816,  when  Clarke  was 
in  his  twenty-ninth  year.  He  was  by  eight 
years  Keats's  senior,  and  he  lived  till  his  nineti- 
eth year. 

OFT  have  you  seen  a  swan  superbly  frown- 
ing, 

And  with  proud  breast  his  own  white 
shadow  crowning; 


EPISTLE   TO   CHARLES    COWDEN   CLARKE 


He   slants   his   neck    beneath   the   waters 

bright 

So  silently,  it  seems  a  beam  of  light 
Come  from  the  galaxy:  anon  he  sports,  — 
With  outspread  wings  the  Naiad  Zephyr 

courts, 

Or  ruffles  all  the  surface  of  the  lake 
In  striving  from  its  crystal  face  to  take 
Some  diamond  water-drops,  and  them  to 

treasure 

In  milky  nest,  and  sip  them  off  at  lei- 
sure. 10 
But  not  a  moment  can  he  there  insure  them, 
Nor  to  such  downy  rest  can  he  allure  them ; 
For  down  they  rush  as  though  they  would 

be  free, 

And  drop  like  hours  into  eternity. 
Just  like  that  bird  am  I  in  loss  of  time, 
Whene'er  I  venture  on  the  stream  of  rhyme ; 
With  shatter'd  boat,  oar  snapt,  and  canvas 

rent, 

I  slowly  sail,  scarce  knowing  my  intent; 
Still  scooping  up  the  water  with  my  fingers, 
In    which    a    trembling    diamond     never 

lingers.  20 

By  this,  friend  Charles,  you  may  full 

plainly  see 

Why  I  have  never  penn'd  a  line  to  thee: 
Because  my  thoughts  were  never  free,  and 

clear, 

And  little  fit  to  please  a  classic  ear; 
Because  my  wine  was  of  too  poor  a  savour 
For  one  whose  palate  gladdens  in  the  fla- 
vour 

Of  sparkling  Helicon:  —  small  good  it  were 
To  take  him  to  a  desert  rude,  and  bare, 
Who  had  on  Baiae's  shore  reclin'd  at  ease, 
While   Tasso's    page    was    floating    in    a 

breeze  30 

That    gave    soft    music     from    Armida's 

bowers, 
Mingled  with  fragrance  from  her   rarest 

flowers : 
Small  good   to  one  who  had  by  Mulla's 

stream 
Fondled  the  maidens  with  the  breasts  of 


Who  had  beheld  Belphoebe  in  a  brook, 
And  lovely  Una  in  a  leafy  nook, 
And  Archimago  leaning  o'er  his  book: 
Who  had  of  all  that's  sweet  tasted,  and 

seen, 

From  silv'ry  ripple,  up  to  beauty's  queen; 
From  the  sequester'd  haunts  of  gay  Tita- 

nia,  4o 

To  the  blue  dwelling  of  divine  Urania: 
One,  who  of  late  had   ta'en  sweet  forest 

walks 

With  him  who  elegantly  chats  and  talks  — 
The  wrong'd  Libertas,  —  who  has  told  you 

stories 

Of  laurel  chaplets,  and  Apollo's  glories; 
Of  troops  chivalrous  prancing  through  a 

city, 

And  tearful  ladies  made  for  love,  and  pity : 
With  many  else  which  I  have  never  known. 
Thus  have  I  thought;  and  days  on  days 

have  flown 

Slowly,  or  rapidly  —  unwilling  still  5o 

For  you  to  try  my  dull,  unlearned  quill. 
Nor  should  I  now,  but  that  I  've  known  you 

long; 
That  you  first  taught  me  all  the  sweets  of 

song: 
The  grand,  the  sweet,  the  terse,  the  free, 

the  fine: 
What  swell'd  with  pathos,  and  what  right 

divine: 

Spenserian  vowels  that  elope  with  ease, 
And  float   along   like   birds  o'er  summer 


Miltonian  storms,  and  more,  Miltonian  ten- 
derness : 

Michael  in  arms,  and  more,  meek  Eve's  fair 
slenderness. 

Who  read  for  me  the  sonnet  swelling 
loudly  60 

Up  to  its  climax,  and  then  dying  proudly  ? 

Who  found  for  me  the  grandeur  of  the 
ode, 

Growing,  like  Atlas,  stronger  from  its  load  ? 

Who  let  me  taste  that  more  than  cordial 
dram, 

The  sharp,  the  rapier-pointed  epigram  ? 

Show'd  me  that  epic  was  of  all  the  king, 


32 


EARLY   POEMS 


Round,  vast,  and  spanning  all,  like  Saturn's 
ring? 

You  too  upheld  the  veil  from  Clio's  beauty, 

And  pointed  out  the  patriot's  stern  duty; 

The  might  of  Alfred,  and  the  shaft  of 
Tell;  7o 

The  hand  of  Brutus,  that  so  grandly  fell 

Upon  a  tyrant's  head.  Ah!  had  I  never 
seen, 

Or  known  your  kindness,  what  might  I 
have  been  ? 

What  my  enjoyments  in  my  youthful  years, 

Bereft  of  all  that  now  my  life  endears  ? 

And  can  I  e'er  these  benefits  forget  ? 

And  can  I  e'er  repay  the  friendly  debt  ? 

No,  doubly  no;  —  yet  should  these  rhy fil- 
ings please, 

I  shall  roll  on  the  grass  with  twofold  ease; 

For  I  have  long  time  been  my  fancy  feed- 
ing 80 

With  hopes  that  you  would  one  day  think 
the  reading 

Of  my  rough  verses  not  an  hour  misspent; 

Should  it  e'er  be  so,  what  a  rich  content ! 

Some  weeks  have  pass'd  since  last  I  saw 
the  spires 

In  lucent  Thames  reflected: — warm  de- 
sires 

To  see  the  sun  o'er-peep  the  eastern  dim- 
ness 

And  morning  shadows  streaking  into  slim- 
ness, 

Across  the  lawny  fields,  and  pebbly  water; 

To  mark  the  time  as  they  grow  broad,  and 
shorter; 

To  feel  the  air  that  plays  about  the  hills,  9o 

And  sips  its  freshness  from  the  little  rills; 

To  see  high,  golden  corn  wave  in  the  light 

When  Cynthia  smiles  upon  a  summer's 
night, 

And  peers  among  the  cloudlet's  jet  and 
white, 

As  though  she  were  reclining  in  a  bed 

Of  bean  blossoms,  in  heaven  freshly  shed. 

No  sooner  had  I  stepp'd  into  these  plea- 
sures, 

Than  I  began  to  think  of  rhymes  and  mea- 


The  air  that  floated  by  me  seem'd  to  say 
'  Write  !    thou  wilt   never   have   a  better 

day.' 
And   so   I   did.      When   many   lines   I  'd 

written, 
Though  with  their  grace  I  was  not  over- 

smitten, 
Yet,  as  my  hand  was  warm,  I  thought  I  'd 

better 

Trust  to  my  feelings,  and  write  you  a  letter. 
Such  an  attempt  required  an  inspiration 
Of  a  peculiar  sort,  —  a  consummation;  — 
Which,  had  I  felt,  these  scribblings  might 

have  been 
Verses  from  which  the  soul  would  never 

wean; 
But  many  days  have  past  since   last  my 

heart  109 

Was  warm'd  luxuriously  by  divine  Mozart; 
By  Arne    delighted,  or   by  Handel  mad- 

den'd; 
Or  by  the  song  of  Erin  pierc'd  and  sad- 

den'd: 
What  time   you   were   before   the    music 

sitting, 

And  the  rich  notes  to  each  sensation  fitting. 
Since  I  have  walk'd  with  you  through  shady 

lanes 

That  freshly  terminate  in  open  plains, 
And  revell'd  in  a  chat  that  ceased  not 
When  at  night-fall  among  your  books  we 

got: 

No,  nor  when  supper  came,  nor  after  that,  — 
Nor  when  reluctantly  I  took  my  hat;       120 
No,  nor  till  cordially  you  shook  my  hand 
Mid-way  between  our  homes  :  —  your  ac- 

cents bland 

Still  sounded  in  my  ears,  when  I  no  more 
Could  hear  your  footsteps  touch  the  grav'ly 

floor. 
Sometimes   I  lost  them,  and  then   found 

again; 
You  changed  the  foot-path  for  the  grassy 

plain. 
In  those  still  moments  I  have  wish'd  you 


That  well  you  know  to  honour:  —  *  Life's 
very  toys 


ADDRESSED   TO    BENJAMIN    ROBERT   HAYDON 


33 


With  him,'  said  I,  '  will  take  a  pleasant 

charm; 
It   cannot   be  that   ought  will  work   him 

harm.'  130 

These  thoughts  now  come  o'er  me  with  all 

their  might:  — 
Again  I  shake  your  hand,  —  friend  Charles, 

good  night. 

TO    MY    BROTHERS 

Though  the  poem  is  thus  headed  in  the  1817 
volume,  where  it  is  dated  November  18,  1816, 
it  might  as  properly  have  the  heading  given  it 
in  Tom  Keats 's  copybook  :  '  Written  to  his 
Brother  Tom  on  his  Birthday,'  with  the  same 
date. 

SMALL,  busy  flames  play  through  the  fresh- 
laid  coats, 

And  their  faint  cracklings  o'er  our  si- 
lence creep 
Like  whispers  of  the  household  gods  that 

keep 

A  gentle  empire  o'er  fraternal  souls. 
And  while,  for  rhymes,  I  search  around  the 

poles, 

Your  eyes  are  fix'd,  as  in  poetic  sleep, 
Upon  the  lore  so  voluble  and  deep, 
That  aye  at  fall  of  night  our  care  condoles. 
This  is  your  birth-day,  Tom,  and  I  rejoice 

That  thus  it  passes  smoothly,  quietly: 
Many  such  eves  of  gently  whisp'ring  noise 

May  we  together  pass,  and  calmly  try 
What  are  this  world's  true  joys,  —  ere  the 

great  Voice, 
From  its  fair  face,  shall  bid  our  spirits  fly. 


ADDRESSED    TO    BENJAMIN 
ROBERT    HAYDON 

The  first  of  these  two  sonnets  was  sent  by 
Keats  with  this  brief  note:  'November  20, 
1816.  My  dear  Sir  —  Last  evening  wrought 
me  up,  and  I  cannot  forbear  sending  you  the 
following.'  In  his  prompt  acknowledgment 
Haydon  suggested  the  omission  of  the  last  four 
words  in  the  penultimate  line,  and  proposed 
sending  the  sonnet  to  Wordsworth.  Keats  re- 


plied on  the  same  day  as  his  first  note  :  '  Your 
letter  has  filled  me  with  a  proud  pleasure,  and 
shall  be  kept  by  me  as  a  stimulus  to  exertion  — 
I  begin  to  fix  my  eye  upon  one  horizon.  My 
feelings  entirely  fall  in  with  yours  in  regard  to 
the  Ellipsis,  and  I  glory  in  it.  The  Idea  of 
your  sending  it  to  Wordsworth  put  me  out  of 
breath.  You  know  with  what  Reverence  I 
would  send  my  Well-wishes  to  him.'  The  pre- 
sentation copy  of  the  1817  volume  bears  the 
inscription  '  To  W.  Wordsworth  with  the  Au- 
thor's sincere  Reverence.'  Both  sonnets  were 
printed,  but  in  the  reverse  order  in  the  1817 
volume,  and  the  ellipsis  was  preserved. 

I 

GREAT  spirits  now  on  earth  are  sojourning; 
He  of  the  cloud,  the  cataract,  the  lake, 
Who  on  Helvellyn's  summit,  wide  awake, 
Catches   his   freshness    from    Archangel's 

wing: 

He  of  the  rose,  the  violet,  the  spring, 
The  social  smile,  the  chain  for  Freedom's 

sake: 
And   lo  !  —  whose    steadfastness    would 

never  take 

A  meaner  sound  than  Raphael's  whispering. 

And  other  spirits  there  are  standing  apart 

Upon  the  forehead  of  the  age  to  come; 

These,  these  will  give  the  world  another 

heart, 

And  other  pulses.     Hear  ye  not  the  hum 
Of  mighty  workings  in  the  human  mart  ? 
Listen  awhile  ye  nations,  and  be  dumb. 


HIGHMINDEDNESS,  a  jealousy  for  good, 
A  loving-kindness  for  the  great   man's 

fame, 
Dwells  here  and  there  with  people  of  no 

name, 

In  noisome  alley,  and  in  pathless  wood: 
And  where  we  think  the  truth  least  under- 
stood, 

Oft  may  be  found  a '  singleness  of  aim,' 
That  ought  to  frighten  into  hooded  shame 
A  money-mong'ring,  pitiable  brood. 
How  glorious  this  affection  for  the  cause 
Of  steadfast  genius,  toiling  gallantly  ! 


34 


EARLY   POEMS 


What  when  a  stout  unbending  champion 

awes 

Envy,  and  Malice  to  their  native  sty  ? 
Unnumber'd  souls  breathe  out  a  still  ap- 
plause, 
Proud  to  behold  him  in  his  country's  eye. 

TO    KOSCIUSKO 

First  published  in  The  Examiner,  where  it 
is  dated  'Dec.,  1816.'  It  is  included  in  the 
1817  volume. 

GOOD  Kosciusko,  thy  great  name  alone 
Is  a  full  harvest  whence  to  reap  high 

feeling; 

It  comes  upon  us  like  the  glorious  pealing 

Of  the  wide  spheres  —  an  everlasting  tone. 

And  now  it  tells  me,  that  in  worlds  unknown, 

The  names  of  heroes,  burst  from  clouds 

concealing, 
Are    changed    to    harmonies,   for    ever 

stealing 
Through   cloudless  blue,  and  round   each 

silver  throne. 
It  tells  me  too,  that  on  a  happy  day, 

When  some  good  spirit  walks  upon  the 

earth, 
Thy  name  with  Alfred's,  and  the  great 

of  yore, 
Gently  commingling,   gives  tremendous 

birth 

To  a  loud  hymn,  that  sounds  far,  far  away 
To  where  the  great  God  lives  for  ever- 
more. 


TO    G.   A.   W. 

Georgiana  Augusta  Wylie,  who  afterward 
married  George  Keats.  For  other  verses  ad- 
dressed to  this  lady  see  pp.  11,  240,  243. 

This  sonnet  in  Tom  Keats's  copybook  is 
dated  December,  1816 ;  it  was  published  in  the 
1817  volume. 

NYMPH  of  the  downward  smile  and  side- 
long glance, 

In  what  diviner  moments  of  the  day 
Art  thou  most  lovely  ?     When  gone  far 
astray 


Into  the  labyrinths  of  sweet  utterance  ? 
Or  when  serenely  wand'ring  in  a  trance 
Of  sober  thought?      Or  when  starting 

away, 
With  careless  robe,  to  meet  the  morning 

ray, 

Thou  spar'st  the  flowers  in  thy  mazy  dance  ? 
Haply  't  is  when  thy  ruby  lips  part  sweetly, 

And  so  remain,  because  thou  listenest: 
But  thou  to  please  wert  nurtured  so  com- 
pletely 

That  I  can  never  tell  what  mood  is  best. 
I  shall  as  soon  pronounce  which  Grace  more 

neatly 
Trips  it  before  Apollo  than  the  rest. 


STANZAS 

There  is  no  date  given  to  this  poem  by  Lord 
Houghton,  who  published  it  in  the  1848  edi- 
tion, and  no  reference  occurs  to  it  in  the  Letters. 
It  was  probably  an  early  careless  poem,  very 
likely  a  set  of  album  verses. 

IN  a  drear-nighted  December, 

Too  happy,  happy  tree, 
Thy  branches  ne'er  remember 

Their  green  felicity: 
The  north  cannot  undo  them, 
With  a  sleety  whistle  through  them; 
Nor  frozen  thawings  glue  them 
From  budding  at  the  prime. 

In  a  drear-nighted  December, 
Too  happy,  happy  brook, 
Thy  bubblings  ne'er  remember 

Apollo's  summer  look; 
But  with  a  sweet  forgetting, 
They  stay  their  crystal  fretting, 
Never,  never  petting 

About  the  frozen  time. 

Ah  !  would  't  were  so  with  many 

A  gentle  girl  and  boy  ! 
But  were  there  ever  any 

Writh'd  not  at  passed  joy  ? 
To  know  the  change  and  feel  it, 
When  there  is  none  to  heal  it, 


ON   THE   GRASSHOPPER   AND   CRICKET 


35 


Nor  numbed  sense  to  steal  it, 
Was  never  said  in  rhyme. 


WRITTEN    IN    DISGUST   OF 
VULGAR    SUPERSTITION 

In  Tom  Keats's  copybook  this  sonnet  is 
dated  '  Sunday  evening1,  Dec.  24, 1816.'  Lord 
Houghton  gives  it  in  the  Aldine  edition,  and 
heads  it '  Written  on  a  Summer  Evening.'  Pos- 
sibly the  seventh  line  may  be  adduced  as  evi- 
dence of  the  wintry  season. 

THE  church  bells  toll  a  melancholy  round, 
Calling  the  people  to  some  other  prayers, 
Some  other  gloominess,  more  dreadful 

cares, 
More  hearkening  to  the  sermon's  horrid 

sound. 

Surely  the  mind  of  man  is  closely  bound 
In  some  black  spell;  seeing  that  each  one 

tears 
Himself  from  fireside  joys,  and  Lydian 

airs, 
And   converse   high   of  those    with   glory 

crown'd. 
Still,  still  they  toll,  and  I  should  feel  a 

damp,  — 

A  chill  as  from  a  tomb,  did  I  not  know 
That  they  are  dying  like  an  outburnt  lamp; 
That  't  is  their  sighing,  wailing  ere  they 

8° 
Into  oblivion;  —  that  fresh  flowers  will 

grow, 
And  many  glories  of  immortal  stamp. 


SONNET 

Published  in  the  1817  volume,  but  there  is 
no  evidence  as  to  its  exact  date.  It  is  the 
latest  in  order  of  the  sonnets,  immediately  pre- 
ceding Sleep  and  Poetry. 

HAPPY  is  England!  I  could  be  content 
To  see  no  other  verdure  than  its  own; 
To  feel  no  other  breezes  than  are  blown 

Through  its  tall  woods  with  high  romances 
blent: 


Yet  do  I  sometimes  feel  a  languishmerit 
For  skies  Italian,  and  an  inward  groan 
To  sit  upon  an  Alp  as  on  a  throne, 
And  half  forget  what  world  or  worldling 

meant. 

Happy  is  England,  sweet  her  artless  daugh- 
ters; 

Enough  their  simple  loveliness  for  me, 
Enough  their  whitest  arms  in  silence 

clinging: 
Yet  do  I  often  warmly  burn  to  see 

Beauties  of  deeper  glance,  and  hear 

their  singing, 

And  float  with  them  about   the   summer 
waters. 


ON   THE   GRASSHOPPER   AND 
CRICKET 

Written  December  30,  1816,  on  a  challenge 
from  Leigh  Hunt,  who  printed  both  his  and 
Keats's  sonnets  in  his  paper,  The  Examiner. 
Keats  included  the  sonnet  in  his  1817  volume. 
Leigh  Hunt's  sonnet  will  be  found  in  the 
NOTES  AND  ILLUSTRATIONS. 

THE  poetry  of  earth  is  never  dead: 

When  all  the  birds  are  faint  with  the 

hot  sun, 

And  hide  in  cooling  trees,  a  voice  will  run 
From  hedge  to  hedge  about  the  new-mown 

mead; 
That  is  the  Grasshopper's — he  takes  the 

lead 

In  summer  luxury,  —  he  has  never  done 
With  his  delights;  for  when  tired  out 

with  fun, 
He  rests   at  ease  beneath  some  pleasant 

weed. 

The  poetry  of  earth  is  ceasing  never: 
On  a  lone  winter  evening,  when  the  frost 
Has  wrought  a  silence,  from  the  stove 

there  shrills 
The  Cricket's  song,  in  warmth  increasing 

ever, 

And  seems  to  one,  in  drowsiness  half  lost, 
The  Grasshopper's  among  some  grassy 
hills. 


EARLY   POEMS 


SONNET 

Printed  in  The  Examiner,  February  23, 1817, 
and  dated  by  Lord  Houghton,  when  reprinting 
it,  '  January,  1817.' 

AFTER  dark  vapours  have   oppress'd  our 

plains 

For  a  long  dreary  season,  comes  a  day 
Born   of  the   gentle   South,  and  clears 

away 

From  the  sick  heavens  all  unseemly  stains. 
The  anxious  month,  relieved  its  pains, 
Takes  as  a  long-lost  right  the  feel  of 

May; 
The  eyelids  with   the   passing  coolness 

play, 
Like  rose  leaves  with  the  drip  of  summer 

rains. 
And  calmest  thoughts  come  round  us;  as, 

of  leaves 
Budding,  —  fruit  ripening  in  stillness,  — 

Autumn  suns 

Smiling  at  eve  upon  the  quiet  sheaves,  — 
Sweet  Sappho's  cheek,  —  a  sleeping  infant's 

breath,  — 

The  gradual  sand  that  through  an  hour- 
glass runs,  — 
A  woodland  rivulet,  —  a  Poet's  death. 


WRITTEN  ON  THE  BLANK 
SPACE  AT  THE  END  OF 
CHAUCER'S  TALE  OF  'THE 
FLOURE  AND  THE  LEFE ' 

Written  in  February,  1817,  and  published  in 
The  Examiner,  March  16,  1817.  There  is  a 
pleasant  story  that  Charles  Cowden  Clarke  had 
fallen  asleep  over  the  book,  and  woke  to  find 
this  epilogue. 

THIS  pleasant  tale  is  like  a  little  copse: 
The  honied  lines  so  freshly  interlace, 
To  keep  the  reader  in  so  sweet  a  place, 

So   that   he   here   and   there    full-hearted 
stops; 

And  oftentimes  he  feels  the  dewy  drops 
Come  cool  and  suddenly  against  his  face, 


And,  by  the  wandering  melody,  may  trace 
Which  way  the  tender-legged  linnet  hops. 
Oh!  what  a  power  has  white  simplicity  ! 

What  mighty  power  has  this  gentle  story  ! 

I,  that  do  ever  feel  athirst  for  glory, 
Could  at  this  moment  be  content  to  lie 

Meekly  upon  the  grass,  as  those  whose 
sobbings 

Were  heard  of  none  beside  the  mournful 
robins. 


ON    SEEING   THE   ELGIN 
MARBLES 

This  and  the  following  sonnet  were  printed 
in  The  Examiner,  March  9, 1817,  and  reprinted 
in  Life,  Letters  and  Literary  Remains. 

MY  spirit  is  too  weak  —  mortality 

Weighs   heavily   on   me   like   unwilling 

sleep, 

And  each  imagin'd  pinnacle  and  steep 
Of  godlike  hardship  tells  me  I  must  die 
Like  a  sick  Eagle  looking  at  the  sky. 
Yet  't  is  a  gentle  luxury  to  weep 
That  I  have   not  the  cloudy  winds  to 

keep, 

Fresh  for  the  opening  of  the  morning's  eye. 
Such  dim-conceived  glories  of  the  brain 
Bring  round  the  heart  an  indescribable 

feud; 

So  do  these  wonders  a  most  dizzy  pain, 
That  mingles  Grecian  grandeur  with  the 

rude 
Wasting   of   old   Time  —  with   a   billowy 

main  — 
A  sun  —  a  shadow  of  a  magnitude. 


TO    HAYDON 

(WITH  THE  PRECEDING  SONNET) 

HAYDON  !  forgive  me  that  I  cannot  speak 
Definitively  of  these  mighty  things; 
Forgive   me,   that   I   have   not   Eagle's 

wings  — 

That   what  I  want  I  know  not  where  to 
seek: 


LINES 


37 


And  think  that  I  would  not  be  over  meek, 
In  rolling  out  upfollow'd  thuuderings, 
Even  to  the  steep  of  Heliconian  springs, 
Were    I   of    ample    strength    for   such   a 

freak  — 
Think  too,  that  all  those  numbers  should 

be  thine; 
Whose   else?     In   this   who   touch   thy 

vesture's  hem  ? 
For  when  men  star'd  at  what  was  most 

divine 
With      browless      idiotism  —  o'erwise 

phlegm  — 

Thou  hadst  beheld  the  Hesperean  shine 
Of  their  star  in  the  East,  and  gone  to 
worship  them. 


TO    LEIGH   HUNT,  ESQ. 

This  stood  as  dedication  to  the  1817  volume, 
which  was  published  in  the  month  of  March. 
Charles  Cowden  Clarke  makes  the  statement : 
1  On  the  evening  when  the  last  proof  sheet  was 
brought  from  the  printer,  it  was  accompanied 
by  the  information  that  if  a  "  dedication  to  the 
book  was  intended,  it  must  be  sent  forthwith." 
Whereupon  he  withdrew  to  a  side  table,  and  in 
the  buzz  of  a  mixed  conversation  (for  there 
were  several  friends  in  the  room)  he  composed 
and  brought  to  Charles  Oilier,  the  publisher, 
the  dedication  sonnet  to  Leigh  Hunt.' 

GLORY  and  loveliness  have  pass'd  away ; 

For  if  we  wander  out  in  early  morn, 

No  wreathed  incense  do  we  see  upborne 
Into  the  east,  to  meet  the  smiling  day: 
No  crowd  of  nymphs  soft-voic'd  and  young, 
and  gay, 

In  woven  baskets  bringing  ears  of  corn, 

Roses,  and  pinks,  and  violets,  to  adorn 
The  shrine  of  Flora  in  her  early  May. 
But  there  are  left  delights  as  high  as  these, 

And  I  shall  ever  bless  my  destiny, 
That  in  a  time,  when  under  pleasant  trees 

Pan  is  no  longer  sought,  I  feel  a  free, 
A  leafy  luxury,  seeing  I  could  please 

With  these  poor  offerings,  a  man  like 
thee. 


ON    THE   SEA 

Sent  in  a  letter  to  Reynolds,  dated  April  17, 
1817.  'From  want  of  regular  rest,'  Keats 
says,  '  I  have  been  rather  narvus,  and  the  pas- 
sage in  Lear  —  "  Do  you  not  hear  the  sea  ?  "  — 
has  haunted  me  intensely.'  He  then  copies  the 
sonnet,  which  was  published  in  The  Champion, 
August  17  of  the  same  year.  The  letter  was 
written  from  Carisbrooke.  He  had  been  sent 
away  from  London  by  his  brothers  a  month 
before,  shortly  after  the  appearance  of  his  first 
volume  of  Poems,  and  his  letters  show  the 
nervous,  restless  condition  into  which  he  had 
been  driven  by  that  venture. 


1 


IT  keeps  eternal  whisperings  around 

Desolate    shores,   and   with   its   mighty 

swell 
Gluts  twice  ten  thousand  caverns,  till  the 

spell 
Of  Hecate  leaves  them  their  old  shadowy 

sound. 

Often  't  is  in  such  gentle  temper  found, 
That  scarcely  will  the  very  smallest  shell 
Be  mov'd  for  days  from  where  it  some- 
time fell, 
When    last    the    winds    of    Heaven    were 

unbound. 
O  ye  !  who  have  your  eyeballs  vex'd  and 

tir'd, 

Feast  them  upon  the  wideness  of  the  Sea; 
O  ye  !  whose  ears  are  dinn'd  with  up- 
roar rude, 

Or  fed  too  much  with  cloying  melody, — 
Sit  ye  near  some  old  cavern's  mouth, 

and  brood 
Until  ye  start,  as  if  the  sea-nymphs  quired  ! 


LINES 

First  published,  with  the  date  1817,  in  Life, 
Letters  and  Literary  Remains.  It  is  barely 
possible  that  this  is  the  '  song '  to  which  Keats 
refers  in  a  letter  to  Benjamin  Bailey,  dated 
November  22,  1817,  when  he  says  :  '  I  am  cer- 
tain of  nothing  but  the  holiness  of  the  Heart's 
affections,  and  the  truth  of  Imagination.  What 
the  Imagination  seizes  as  Beauty  must  be  truth 


EARLY   POEMS 


—  whether  it  existed  before  or  not  —  for  I 
have  the  same  idea  of  all  our  passions  as  of 
Love  :  they  are  all,  in  their  sublime,  creative 
of  essential  Beauty.  In  a  word,  you  may  know 
my  favourite  speculation  by  my  first  Book,  and 
the  little  Song  I  sent  in  my  last,  which  is  a 
representation  from  the  fancy  of  the  probable 
mode  of  operating  in  these  matters.' 

UNFELT,  unheard,  unseen, 

I  've  left  my  little  queen, 
Her  languid  arms  in  silver  slumber  lying: 

Ah  !  through  their  nestling  touch, 

Who  —  who  could  tell  how  much 
There  is  for  madness  —  cruel,  or  comply- 
ing? 

Those  faery  lids  how  sleek  ! 

Those  lips  how  moist !  —  they  speak, 
In  ripest  quiet,  shadows  of  sweet  sounds: 

Into  my  fancy's  ear 

Melting  a  burden  dear, 
How  '  Love  doth  know  no  fulness,  and  no 
bounds.' 

True  !  —  tender  monitors  ! 

I  bend  unto  your  laws: 
This  sweetest  day  for  dalliance  was  born  ! 

So,  without  more  ado, 

I  '11  feel  my  heaven  anew, 
For  all  the  blushing  of  the  hasty  morn. 


ON    

Published  with  the  date  1817  by  Lord 
Houghton  in  Life,  Letters  and  Literary  Re- 
mains, but  slightly  varied  in  form  when  re- 
printed in  the  Aldine  edition. 

THINK  not  of  it,  sweet  one,  so;  — 

Give  it  not  a  tear; 
Sigh  thou  mayst,  and  bid  it  go 

Any  —  any  where. 

Do  not  look  so  sad,  sweet  one,  — 

Sad  and  fadingly; 
Shed  one  drop,  then  it  is  gone, 

Oh  !  't  was  born  to  die  ! 


Still  so  pale  ?  then  dearest  weep; 

Weep,  I  '11  count  the  tears, 
For  each  will  I  invent  a  bliss 

For  thee  in  after  years. 

Brighter  has  it  left  thine  eyes 

Than  a  sunny  rill; 
And  thy  whispering  melodies 

Are  more  tender  still. 

Yet  —  as  all  things  mourn  awhile 

At  fleeting  blisses; 
E'en  let  us  too;  but  be  our  dirge 

A  dirge  of  kisses. 


ON   A   PICTURE   OF   LEANDER 

This  sonnet  was  printed  in  1829  in  The  Gem, 
a  Literary  Annual,  edited  by  Thomas  Hood. 
It  is  not  dated,  but  may  fairly  be  assigned  to 
this  time. 

COME  hither,  all  sweet  maidens  soberly, 
Down-looking  aye,  and  with  a  chasten'd 

light 

Hid  in  the  fringes  of  your  eyelids  white, 
And  meekly  let  your  fair  hands  joined  be, 
As  if  so  gentle  that  ye  could  not  see, 

Untouch'd,  a  victim  of  your  beauty  bright, 
Sinking  away  to  his  young  spirit's  night, 
Sinking  bewilder'd  'mid  the  dreary  sea: 
'T  is  young  Leander  toiling  to  his  death ; 
Nigh  swooning,  he  doth  purse  his  weary 

lips 
For  Hero's  cheek,  and  smiles  against 

her  smile. 

O  horrid  dream  !  see  how  his  body  dips 
Dead-heavy ;  arms  and  shoulders  gleam 

awhile : 

He's   gone;   up   bubbles   all   his   amorous 
breath  ! 


ON    LEIGH   HUNT'S  POEM,  'THE 
STORY   OF    RIMINI' 

Dated  1817  in  the  Life,  Letters  and  Literary 
Remains,  and  placed  next  after  the  preceding. 


ON    SEEING   A   LOCK   OF   MILTON'S    HAIR 


39 


WHO  loves  to  peer  up  at  the  morning  sun, 
With    half-shut   eyes   and    comfortable 

cheek, 
Let  him,  with  this  sweet  tale,  full  often 

seek 

For  meadows  where  the  little  rivers  run; 
Who  loves  to  linger  with  that  brightest  one 
Of  Heaven  —  Hesperus  —  let  him  lowly 

speak 

These  numbers  to  the  night,  and  star- 
light meek, 

Or  moon,  if  that  her  hunting  be  begun. 
He  who  knows  these  delights,  and  too  is 

prone 

To  moralize  upon  a  smile  or  tear, 
Will  find  at  once  a  region  of  his  own, 

A  bower  for  his  spirit,  and  will  steer 
To  alleys,  where  the  fir-tree  drops  its  cone, 
Where  robins  hop,  and  fallen  leaves  are 
sear. 


SONNET 

First  published  in  Life,  Letters  and  Literary 
Remains,  but  dated  1817  in  a  manuscript  copy 
owned  by  Sir  Charles  Dilke.  Keats  sends  it 
as  his  '  last  sonnet '  in  a  letter  to  Reynolds 
written  on  the  last  day  of  January,  1818. 

r 

WHEX  I  have  fears  that  I  may  cease  to 

be 
Before  my  pen  has  glean'd  my  teeming 

brain, 

Before  high  piled  books,  in  charactry, 
Hold  like  rich  garners  the  full-ripen'd 

grain; 
When  I  behold,  upon  the  night's  starr'd 

face, 

Huge  cloudy  symbols  of  a  high  romance, 
And  think  that  I  may  never  live  to  trace 
Their  shadows,  with  the  magic  hand  of 

chance; 

And  when  I  feel,  fair  creature  of  an  hour  ! 
That  I  shall  never  look  upon  thee  more, 
Never  have  relish  in  the  faery  power 

Of  unreflecting  love ;  — ^hen  on  the  shore 
Of  the  wide  world  I  stand  alone^\and  think 
Till  Love  and  Fame  to  nothingness  do  sink. 


ON    SEEING   A   LOCK   OF 
MILTON'S    HAIR 

'I  was  at  Hunt's  the  other  day,'  writes 
Keats  to  Bailey,  January  23,  1818,  'and  he 
surprised  me  with  a  real  authenticated  lock  of 
Milton's  Hair.  I  know  you  would  like  what  I 
wrote  thereon,  so  here  it  is  —  as  they  say  of  a 
sheep  in  a  Nursery  Book.1  "This  I  did,'  he 
adds,  after  copying  the  lines,  '  at  Hunt's  at 
his  request  —  perhaps  I  should  have  done 
something  better  alone  and  at  home.'  Lord 
Houghton  printed  the  verse  in  Life,  Letters 
and  Literary  Remains. 

CHIEF  of  organic  numbers  ! 

Old  Scholar  of  the  Spheres  ! 
Thy  spirit  never  slumbers, 
But  rolls  about  our  ears, 
For  ever  and  for  ever  ! 
O  what  a  mad  endeavour 

Worketh  he, 

Who  to  thy  sacred  and  ennobled  hearse 
Would  offer  a  burnt  sacrifice  of  verse 
And  melody. 

How  heavenward  thou  soundest, 

Live  Temple  of  sweet  noise, 
And  Discord  unconfoundest, 

Giving  Delight  new  joys, 
And  Pleasure  nobler  pinions  ! 
O,  where  are  thy  dominions  ? 

Lend  thine  ear 

To  a  young  Delian  oath,  —  ay,  by  thy  soul, 
By  all  that  from  thy  mortal  lips  did  roll, 
And  by  the  kernel  of  thine  earthly  love, 
Beauty,  in  things  on  earth,  and  things  above, 

I  swear  ! 
When  every  childish  fashion 

Has  vanish' d  from  my  rhyme, 
Will  I,  grey-gone  in  passion, 
Leave  to  an  after-time, 

Hymning  and  harmony 
Of  thee,   and   of  thy   works,  and  of  thy 

life; 

But  vain  is  now  the  burning  and  the  strife, 
Pangs  are  in  vain,  until  I  grow  high-rife 

With  old  Philosophy, 
And  mad  with  glimpses  of  futurity  ! 


EARLY   POEMS 


For  many  years  my  offering  must  be  hush'd ; 
When  I  do  speak,  I'll  think  upon  this 

hour, 

Because  I  feel  my  forehead  hot  and  flush' d. 
Even    at   the    simplest    vassal    of    thy 

power,  — 

A  lock  of  thy  bright  hair  — 
Sudden  it  came, 
And  I  was  startled,  when  I  caught  thy  name 

Coupled  so  unaware; 
Yet,  at  the   moment,  temperate  was   my 

blood. 
I  thought  I  had  beheld  it  from  the  flood. 


ON     SITTING    DOWN    TO    READ 
'KING    LEAR'    ONCE   AGAIN 

In  a  letter  to  his  brothers,  dated  January  23, 
1818,  Keats  says :  '  I  think  a  little  change  has 
taken  place  in  my  intellect  lately  —  I  cannot 
bear  to  be  uninterested  or  unemployed,  I,  who 
for  so  long  a  time  have  been  addicted  to  pas- 
siveness.  Nothing  is  finer  for  the  purposes  of 
great  productions  than  a  very  gradual  ripen- 
ing of  the  intellectual  powers.  As  an  instance 
of  this  —  observe — I  sat  down  yesterday  to 
read  King  Lear  once  again :  the  thing  ap- 
peared to  demand  the  prologue  of  a  sonnet, 
I  wrote  it,  and  began  to  read  —  (I  know  you 
would  like  to  see  it).  So  you  see,'  he  goes  on 
after  copying  the  sonnet,  '  I  am  getting  at  it 
with  a  sort  of  determination  and  strength, 
though  verily  I  do  not  feel  it  at  this  moment.' 
The  sonnet  was  printed  in  Life,  Letters  and 
Literary  Remains. 

O  GOLDEN-TONGUED  Romance,   with    se- 
rene lute  ! 

Fair  plumed  Syren,  Queen  of  far  away  ! 
Leave  melodizing  on  this  wintry  day, 
Shut  up  thine  olden  pages,  and  be  mute: 
Adieu  !  for  once  again  the  fierce  dispute,  \ 
Betwixt  damnation  and  impassion'd  clay^ 
Must  I  burn  through;  once  more  humbly 

assay 
The   bitter   sweet   of  this   Shakespearean 

fruit: 

Chief  Poet !  and  ye  clouds  of  Albion, 
Begetters  of  our  deep  eternal  theme  ! 


When  through  the  old  oak  forest  I  am  gone, 

Let  me  not  wander  in  a  barren  dream, 
But  when  I  am  consumed  in  the  Fire, 
Give  me  new  Pho3nix- wings  to  fly  at  my 
desire. 


LINES    ON    THE   MERMAID 
TAVERN 

In  sending  his  Robin  Hood  verses  to  Rey- 
nolds (see  next  poem),  Keats  added  the  follow- 
ing, but  from  the  tenor  of  his  letter,  it  would' 
appear  that  they  had  been  written  earlier  and 
were  sent  at  Reynolds's  request.  The  poem  was 
published  by  Keats  in  his  Lamia,  Isabella, 
The  Eve  of  St.  Agnes,  and  other  Poems,  1820. 
The  friends  were  then  in  full  tide  of  sympathy 
with  the  Elizabethans,  and  would  have  been 
very  much  at  home  with  Shakespeare,  Jonson, 
and  Marlowe  at  the  Mermaid. 

SOULS  of  Poets  dead  and  gone, 
What  Elysium  have  ye  known, 
Happy  field  or  mossy  cavern, 
Choicer  than  the  Mermaid  Tavern  ? 
Have  ye  tippled  drink  more  fine 
Than  mine  host's  Canary  wine  ? 
Or  are  fruits  of  Paradise 
Sweeter  than  those  dainty  pies 
Of  venison  ?     O  generous  food  ! 
Drest  as  though  bold  Robin  Hood          10 
Would,  with  his  maid  Marian, 
Sup  and  bowse  from  horn  and  can. 

I  have  heard  that  on  a  day 
Mine  host's  sign-board  flew  away, 
Nobody  knew  whither,  till 
An  astrologer's  old  quill 
To  a  sheepskin  gave  the  story, 
Said  he  saw  you  in  your  glory, 
Underneath  a  new-old  sign 
Sipping  beverage  divine,  20 

And  pledging  with  contented  smack 
The  Mermaid  in  the  Zodiac. 

Souls  of  Poets  dead  and  gone, 
What  Elysium  have  ye  known, 
Happy  field  or  mossy  cavern, 
Choicer  than  the  Mermaid  Tavern  ? 


TO   THE   NILE 


ROBIN    HOOD 

TO   A   FRIEND 

The  friend  was  J.  H.  Reynolds,  who  had  sent 
Keats  two  sonnets  which  he  had  written  on 
Robin  Hood.  Keats's  letter,  dated  February 
3,  1818,  is  full  of  energetic  pleasantry  on  the 
poetry  which  '  has  a  palpable  design  upon  us,' 
and  concludes :  '  Let  us  have  the  old  Poets 
and  Robin  Hood.  Your  letter  and  its  sonnets 
gave  me  more  pleasure  than  will  the  Fourth 
Book  of  Childe  Harold,  and  the  whole  of  any- 
body's life  and  opinions.  In  return  for  your 
Dish  of  Filberts,  I  have  gathered  a  few  Catkins. 
I  hope  they  '11  look  pretty.'  Keats  included 
the  poem  in  his  Lamia,  Isabella,  The  Eve  of  St. 
Agnes  and  other  Poems,  1820,  with  some  trifling- 
changes  of  text. 

No  !  those  days  are  gone  away, 
And  their  hours  are  old  and  gray, 
And  their  minutes  buried  all 
Under  the  down-trodden  pall 
Of  the  leaves  of  many  years : 
Many  times  have  Winter's  shears, 
Frozen  North,  and  chilling  East, 
Sounded  tempests  to  the  feast 
Of  the  forest's  whispering  fleeces, 
Since  men  knew  nor  rent  nor  leases.      10 

No,  the  bugle  sounds  no  more, 
And  the  twanging  bow  no  more; 
Silent  is  the  ivory  shrill 
Past  the  heath  and  up  the  hill ; 
There  is  no  mid-forest  laugh, 
Where  lone  Echo  gives  the  half 
To  some  wight,  amaz'd  to  hear 
Jesting,  deep  in  forest  drear. 

On  the  fairest  time  of  June 
You  may  go,  with  sun  or  moon,  20 

Or  the  seven  stars  to  light  you, 
Or  the  polar  ray  to  right  you; 
But  you  never  may  behold 
Little  John,  or  Robin  bold; 
Never  one,  of  all  the  clan, 
Thrumming  on  an  empty  can 
Some  old  hunting  ditty,  while 
He  doth  his  green  way  beguile 


To  fair  hostess  Merriment, 
Down  beside  the  pasture  Trent;  30 

For  he  left  the  merry  tale, 
Messenger  for  spicy  ale. 

Gone,  the  merry  morris  din; 
Gone,  the  song  of  Gamelyn; 
Gone,  the  tough-belted  outlaw 
Idling  in  the  'grene  shawe;' 
All  are  gone  away  and  past ! 
And  if  Robin  should  be  cast 
Sudden  from  his  turfed  grave, 
And  if  Marian  should  have  4o 

Once  again  her  forest  days, 
She  would  weep,  and  he  would  craze: 
He  would  swear,  for  all  his  oaks, 
Fall'n  beneath  the  dock-yard  strokes, 
Have  rotted  on  the  briny  seas; 
She  would  weep  that  her  wild  bees 
Sang  not  to  her  —  strange  !  that  honey 
Can't  be  got  without  hard  money  ! 

So  it  is;  yet  let  us  sing 
Honour  to  the  old  bow-string  !  50 

Honour  to  the  bugle  horn  ! 
Honour  to  the  woods  unshorn  ! 
Honour  to  the  Lincoln  green  ! 
Honour  to  the  Marcher  keen  ! 
Honour  to  tight  little  John, 
And  the  horse  he  rode  upon  f 
Honour  to  bold  Robin  Hood, 
Sleeping  in  the  underwood  ! 
Honour  to  Maid  Marian, 
And  to  all  the  Sherwood  clan  !  60 

Though  their  days  have  hurried  by, 
Let  us  two  a  burden  try. 


TO   THE   NILE 

Composed  February  4, 1818,  in  company  with 
Shelley  and  Hunt,  who  each  wrote  a  sonnet  on 
the  same  theme.  It  was  first  published  by 
Lord  Houghton  in  the  Life,  Letters  and  Liter- 
ary Remains. 

SON  of  the  old  moon-mountains  African  ! 
Chief  of  the  Pyramid  and  Crocodile  ! 
We  call  thee  fruitful,  and  that  very  while 


EARLY   POEMS 


A  desert  fills  our  seeing's  inward  span; 
Nurse   of   swart   nations   since  the  world 

began, 

Art  thou  so  fruitful  ?  or  dost  thou  be- 
guile 
Such  men  to  honour  thee,  who,  worn  with 

toil, 

Rest   for  a  space   'twixt   Cairo   and  De- 
can  ? 
O   may   dark   fancies   err !     They   surely 

do; 

'T  is  ignorance  that  makes  a  barren  waste 
Of  all  beyond  itself.     Thou  dost  bedew 
Green  rushes  like  our  rivers,  and  dost 

taste 
The   pleasant  sun-rise.     Green   isles   hast 

thou  too, 
And  to  the  sea  as  happily  dost  haste. 


TO    SPENSER 

Printed  in  Life,  Letters  and  Literary  Re- 
mains, and  undated.  Afterward,  when  Lord 
Houg-hton  printed  it  in  the  Aldine  edition  of 
1876,  he  noted  that  he  had  seen  a  transcript 
given  by  Keats  to  Mrs.  Long-more,  a  sister  of 
Reynolds,  dated  by  the  recipient,  February  5, 
1818.  But  Lord  Houghton  is  confident  that 
the  sonnet  was  written  much  earlier. 

SPENSER  !  a  jealous  honourer  of  thine, 

A  forester  deep  in  thy  midmost  trees, 
Did  last  eve  ask  my  promise  to  refine 
Some  English  that  might  strive  thine  ear 

to  please. 

But  Elfin  Poet,  'tis  impossible 
For  an  inhabitant  of  wintry  earth 

To  rise  like  Phoebus  with  a  golden  quill 
Fire-wing'd   and  make   a   morning  in  his 

mirth. 

It  is  impossible  to  escape  from  toil 
O'  the  sudden  and  receive  thy  spiriting: 
The  flower  must  drink  the  nature  of  the 

soil 

Before  it  can  put  forth  its  blossoming: 
Be  with  me  in  the  summer  days,  and  I 
Will  for  thine  honour  and  his  pleasure 
try. 


SONG 

WRITTEN  ON  A  BLANK  PAGE  IN  BEAU- 
MONT AND  FLETCHER'S  WORKS,  BE- 
TWEEN 'CUPID'S  REVENGE'  AND 

'THE   TWO   NOBLE   KINSMEN* 

First  published  in  Life,  Letters  and  Literary 
Remains,  and  undated. 

SPIRIT  here  that  reignest ! 
Spirit  here  that  painest ! 
Spirit  here  that  burnest ! 
Spirit  here  that  mournest ! 

Spirit,  I  bow 

My  forehead  low, 
Enshaded  with  thy  pinions. 

Spirit,  I  look 

All  passion-struck 
Into  thy  pale  dominions. 

Spirit  here  that  laughest ! 
Spirit  here  that  quaffest ! 
Spirit  here  that  dancest ! 
Noble  soul  that  prancest ! 
Spirit,  with  thee 
I  join  in  the  glee 
A-nudging  the  elbow  of  Momus. 
Spirit,  I  flush 
With  a  Bacchanal  blush 
Just  fresh  from  the  Banquet  of 
Comus. 


•    FRAGMENT 

Under  the  flag 

Of  each  his  faction,  Oiey  to  battle  bring 
^heir  embryo  atoms. ) 

MILTON. 

Published  in  Life,  Letters  and  Literary  Re- 
mains, without  date. 

WELCOME  joy,  and  welcome  sorrow, 
Lethe's  weed  and  Hermes'  feather; 

Come  to-day,  and  come  to-morrow, 
I  do  love  you  both  together  ! 
I  love  to  mark  sad  faces  in  fair  weather; 

And  hear  a  merry  laugh  amid  the  thunder; 


WRITTEN   IN   ANSWER  TO   A   SONNET 


43 


Fair  and  foul  I  love  together. 
Meadows  sweet  where  flames  are  under, 
And  a  giggle  at  a  wonder; 
Visage  sage  at  pantomime; 
Funeral,  and  steeple-chime; 
Infant  playing  with  a  skull; 
Morning  fair,  and  shipwrecked  hull; 
Nightshade  with  the  woodbine  kissing; 
Serpents  in  red  roses  hissing; 
Cleopatra  regal-dress'd 
With  the  aspic  at  her  breast; 
Dancing  music,  music  sad, 
Both  together,  sane  and  mad; 
Muses  bright,  and  muses  pale; 
Sombre  Saturn,  Momus  hale;  — 
Laugh  and  sigh,  and  laugh  again; 
Oh,  the  sweetness  of  the  pain  ! 
Muses  bright  and  muses  pale, 
Bare  your  faces  of  the  veil; 
Let  me  see;  and  let  me  write 
Of  the  day,  and  of  the  night  — 
Both  together  :  —  let  me  slake 
All  my  thirst  for  sweet  heart-ache  1 
Let  my  bower  be  of  yew, 
Interwreath'd  with  myrtles  new; 
Pines  and  lime-trees  full  in  bloom, 
And  my  couch  a  low  grass-tomb. 


WHAT   THE   THRUSH   SAID 

In  a  long  letter  to  Reynolds,  dated  February 
19,  1818,  Keats  writes  earnestly  of  the  sources 
of  inspiration  to  a  poet,  and  especially  of  the 
need  of  a  receptive  attitude  :  '  Let  us  open  our 
leaves  like  a  flower,  and  be  passive  and  re- 
ceptive ;  budding  patiently  under  the  eye  of 
Apollo  and  taking  hints  from  every  noble 
insect  that  favours  us  with  a  visit  —  Sap  will 
be  given  us  for  meat,  and  dew  for  drink.  I 
was  led  into  these  thoughts,  my  dear  Reynolds, 
by  the  beauty  of  the  morning  operating  on  a 
sense  of  Idleness.  I  have  not  read  any  Book 
—  the  Morning  said  I  was  right  —  I  had  no 
idea  but  of  the  Morning,  and  the  Thrush  said 
I  was  right,  seeming  to  say,'  and  then  follows 
the  poem.  It  was  first  printed  in  Life,  Letters 
and  Literary  Remains. 


O  THOU  whose  face  hath  felt  the  Winter's 

wind, 
Whose  eye  has  seen  the  snow-clouds  hung 

in  mist, 
And  the  black  elm  tops  'mong  the  freezing 

stars, 

To  thee  the  spring  will  be  a  harvest-time. 
O  thou,  whose  only  book  has  been  the  light 
Of  supreme  darkness  which  thou  feddest  on 
Night  after  night  when  Phoabus  was  away, 
To  thee  the  Spring  shall  be  a  triple  morn. 
O  fret  not  after  knowledge  —  I  have  none, 
And  yet  my  song  comes   native  with  the 

warmth. 

O  fret  not  after  knowledge  —  I  have  none, 
And  yet  the  Evening  listens.    He  who  sad- 
dens 

At  thought  of  idleness  cannot  be  idle, 
And  he  's  awake  who  thinks  himself  asleep. 


WRITTEN     IN     ANSWER     TO     A 
SONNET   ENDING   THUS:  — 

'  Dark  eyes  are  dearer  far 
Than  those  that  mock  the  hyacinthine  bell ' 

BY  J.  H.  REYNOLDS. 

Dated  by  Lord  Houghton  '  February,  1818,' 
in  Life,  Letters  and  Literary  Remains,  where  it 
was  first  printed. 

BLUE  !     'T  is  the  life  of  heaven,  —  the  do- 
main 
Of   Cynthia,  —  the   wide   palace  of  the 

sun, — 

The  tent  of  Hesperus,  and  all  his  train,  — 
The  bosomer  of  clouds,  gold,  gray,  and 

dun. 

Blue  !     'T  is  the  life  of  waters  —  ocean 
And  all  its  vassal  streams,  pools  num- 
berless, 
May  rage,  and  foam,  and  fret,  but  never  can 

Subside,  if  not  to  dark  blue  nativeness. 
Blue  !     Gentle  cousin  of  the  forest-green, 
Married   to   green   in   all   the   sweetest 

flowers,  — 

Forget-me-not,  —  the  blue  bell,  —  and,  that 
queen 


44 


EARLY   POEMS 


Of   secrecy,  the   violet:    what    strange 

powers 
Hast  thou,  as  a  mere  shadow  !     But  how 

great, 
When  in  an  Eye  thou  art,  alive  with  fate  ! 


TO  JOHN   HAMILTON 
REYNOLDS 

Undated,  but  placed  by  Lord  Houghton  di- 
rectly after  the  preceding  in  Life,  Letters  and 
Literary  Remains. 

O  THAT  a  week  could  be  an  age,  and  we 
Felt  parting  and  warm  meeting  every 

week; 
Then  one  poor  year  a  thousand  years  would 

be, 

The  flush  of  welcome  ever  on  the  cheek: 
So  could  we  live  long  life  in  little  space, 

So  time  itself  would  be  annihilate, 
So  a  day's  journey  in  oblivious  haze 

To  serve  our  joys  would  lengthen  and 

dilate. 

O  to  arrive  each  Monday  morn  from  Ind  ! 
To  land  each  Tuesday  from  the  rich  Le- 
vant ! 
In  little  time  a  host  of  joys  to  bind, 

And  keep  our  souls  in  one  eternal  pant ! 


This  morn,  my  friend,  and  yester-evening 

taught 
Me  how  to  harbor  such  a  happy  thought. 


THE   HUMAN    SEASONS 

This  sonnet  was  sent  by  Keats  in  a  letter  to 
Benjamin  Bailey,  from  Teignmouth,  March  13, 
1818,  and  was  printed  the  next  year  in  Leigh 
Hunt's  Literary  Pocket-Book,  but  Keats  did 
not  include  the  verses  in  his  1820  volume. 

FOUR  Seasons  fill  the  measure  of  the  year; 

There  are  four  seasons  in  the  mind  of 

man: 
He  has  his  lusty  Spring,  when  fancy  clear 

Takes  in  all  beauty  with  an  easy  span: 
He  has  his  Summer,  when  luxuriously 

Spring's  honied  cud  of  youthful  thought 

he  loves 
To  ruminate,  and  by  such  dreaming  high 

Is  nearest  unto  heaven:  quiet  coves 
His  soul  has  in  its  Autumn,  when  his  wings 

He  furleth  close;  contented  so  to  look 
On  mists  in  idleness  —  to  let  fair  things 

Pass  by  unheeded  as  a  threshold  brook. 
He  has  his  Winter  too  of  pale  misfeature, 
Or  else  he  would  forego  his  mortal   na- 
ture. 


ENDYMION 


KEATS  began  this  poem  in  the  spring  of 
1817  and  finished  it  and  saw  it  through  the 
press  in  just  about  a  year.  It  is  interesting 
to  follow  in  his  correspondence  the  growth 
of  the  poem.  The  subject  in  general  had 
been  in  his  mind  at  least  since  the  sum- 
mer of  1816,  when  he  wrote  /  stood  tiptoe 
upon  a  little  Ml,  and  the  poem  Sleep  and 
Poetry  hints  also  at  the  occupation  of  his 
mind,  though  through  all  the  earlier  and 
partly  imitative  period  of  his  poetical  growth 
he  was  drawn  almost  equally  by  the  ro- 
mance to  which  Spenser  and  Leigh  Hunt  in- 
troduced him,  and  the  classic  themes  which 
his  early  studies,  Chapman  and  the  Elgin 
marbles,  all  conspired  to  make  real.  In 
April,  1817,  he  writes  as  one  absorbed  in 
the  delights  of  poetry  and  stimulated  by  it 
to  production.  '  I  find,'  he  writes  to  Rey- 
nolds from  Carisbrooke,  April  18,  « I  can- 
not exist  without  Poetry  —  half  the  day 
will  not  do  —  the  whole  of  it  —  I  began 
with  a  little,  but  habit  has  made  me  a  Le- 
viathan. I  had  become  all  in  a  Tremble 
from  not  having  written  anything  of  late 
—  the  Sonnet  overleaf  [On  the  Sea~\  did 
me  good.  I  slept  the  better  last  night  for 
it  —  this  morning,  however,  I  am  nearly  as 
bad  again.  Just  now  I  opened  Spenser, 
and  the  first  lines  I  saw  were  these  — 

"  The    noble    heart    that    harbours    virtuous 

thought, 

And  is  with  child  of  glorious  great  intent, 
Can  never  rest  until  it  forth  have  brought 
Th'  eternal  brood  of  glory  excellent." 

...  I  shall  forthwith  begin  my  Endymion, 
which  I  hope  I  shall  have  got  some  way 
with  by  the  time  you  come,  when  we  will 
read  our  verses  in  a  delightful  place  I  have 
set  my  heart  upon,  near  the  Castle.' 

He  reported  progress  to  his  friends  from 
time  to  time  during  the  summer:  the  poem 


was  his  great  occupation,  and  he  had  the 
alternate  exhilaration  and  depression  which 
such  an  undertaking  naturally  would  pro- 
duce in  a  temperament  as  sensitive  as  his; 
indeed,  one  is  not  surprised  to  find  him 
near  the  end  of  September  expressing  him- 
self to  Haydon  as  tired  of  the  poem,  and 
looking  forward  to  a  Romance  to  which  he 
meant  to  devote  himself  the  next  summer, 
for  so  did  his  mind  swing  back  and  forth, 
though  in  truth  romance  was  always  upper- 
most, whether  expressed  in  terms  of  Gre- 
cian mythology  or  medievalism.  But  the 
main  significance  ofEndymion,  as  one  traces 
the  growth  of  Keats's  mind,  is  in  the  strong 
impulse  which  possessed  him  to  try  his 
wings  in  a  great  flight.  In  a  letter  to  Bai- 
ley, October  8,  1817,  he  quotes  from  his 
own  letter  to  George  Keats  '  in  the  spring,' 
and  thus  at  the  very  time  of  his  setting 
forth  on  his  great  venture,  the  following 
notable  passage  :  — 

'  As  to  what  you  say  about  my  being  a 
Poet,  I  can  return  no  answer  but  by  saying 
that  the  high  idea  I  have  of  poetical  fame 
makes  me  think  I  see  it  towering  too  high 
above  me.  At  any  rate  I  have  no  right  to 
talk  until  Endymion  is  finished  —  it  will  be 
a  test,  a  trial  of  my  Powers  of  Imagina- 
tion, and  chiefly  of  my  invention,  which  is 
a  rare  thing  indeed  —  by  which  I  must 
make  4000  lines  of  one  bare  circumstance, 
and  fill  them  with  Poetry:  and  when  I  con- 
sider that  this  is  a  great  task,  and  that 
when  done  it  will  take  me  but  a  dozen 
paces  towards  the  temple  of  fame  —  it 
makes  me  say:  God  forbid  that  I  should 
be  without  such  a  task  !  I  have  heard  Hunt 
say,  and  I  may  be  asked  —  "  Why  endeavour 
after  a  long  Poem  ?  "  To  which  I  would 
answer,  Do  not  the  lovers  of  poetry  like  to 
have  a  little  region  to  wander  in,  where 


45 


ENDYMION 


they  may  pick  and  choose,  and  in  which 
the  images  are  so  numerous  that  many  are 
forgotten  and  found  new  in  a  second  read- 
ing: which  may  be  food  for  a  week's  stroll 
in  summer  ?  Do  not  they  like  this  better 
than  what  they  can  read  through  before 
Mrs.  Williams  comes  down  stairs  ?  a  morn- 
ing work  at  most. 

'  Besides,  a  long  poem  is  a  test  of  inven- 
tion, which  I  take  to  be  the  polar  star  of 
Poetry,  as  Fancy  is  the  sails,  and  Imagina- 
tion the  rudder.  Did  our  great  Poets  ever 
write  short  Pieces  ?  I  mean  in  the  shape  of 
Tales  —  this  same  invention  seems  indeed 
of  late  years  to  have  been  forgotten  as  a 
poetical  excellence  —  But  enough  of  this ; 
I  put  on  no  laurels  till  I  shall  have  finished 
Endymion.' 

Keats  was  drawing  near  the  end  of  his 
task  when  he  wrote  to  Bailey  November 
22:  *  At  present  I  am  just  arrived  at  Dork- 
ing —  to  change  the  scene,  change  the  air 


and  give  me  a  spur  to  wind  up  my  Poem, 
of  which  there  are  wanting  500  lines.'  And 
at  the  end  of  the  first  draft  is  written  '  Bur- 
ford  Bridge  [near  Dorking]  November  28, 
1817.'  Early  in  January,  1818,  Keats  gave 
the  first  book  to  Taylor,  who  '  seemed,' 
he  says,  '  more  than  satisfied  with  it,'  and 
to  Keats's  surprise  proposed  issuing  it  in 
quarto  if  Haydon  would  make  a  drawing 
for  a  frontispiece.  Haydon,  when  asked, 
was  more  eager  to  paint  a  picture  from 
some  scene  in  the  book,  but  proposed  now 
to  make  a  finished  chalk  sketch  of  Keats's 
head  to  be  engraved  for  a  frontispiece; 
for  some  unmentioned  reason,  this  plan  was 
not  carried  out. 

Keats  was  copying  out  the  poem  for  the 
printer,  giving  it  in  book  by  book  and  read- 
ing the  proofs  until  April,  when  it  was 
ready  save  the  Preface.  This  with  dedica- 
tion and  title-page  he  had  sent  to  his  Pub- 
lishers March  21.  They  were  as  follows: 


ENDYMION 

A    ROMANCE 

BY  JOHN  KEATS 


'The  stretched  metre  of  an  antique  song.» 

Shakspeare^s  Sonnets. 

INSCRIBED, 

WITH  EVERY  FEELING  OF  PRIDE  AND  REGRET 
AND  WITH  'A  BOWED  MIND* 

TO  THE  MEMORY  OF 

THE  MOST  ENGLISH  OF  POETS  EXCEPT  SHAKSPEARE, 
THOMAS  CHATTERTON 


PREFACE 

IN  a  great  nation,  the  work  of  an  indi- 
vidual is  of  so  little  importance;  his  plead- 
ings and  excuses  are  so  uninteresting;  his 
*  way  of  life '  such  a  nothing,  that  a  Preface 
seems  a  sort  of  impertinent  bow  to  strangers 
who  care  nothing  about  it. 

A  Preface,  however,  should  be  down  in 
so  many  words;  and  such  a  one  that  by  an 


eye-glance  over  the  type  the  Reader  may 
catch  an  idea  of  an  Author's  modesty,  and 
non-opinion  of  himself  —  which  I  sincerely 
hope  may  be  seen  in  the  few  lines  I  have 
to  write,  notwithstanding  many  proverbs  of 
many  ages  old  which  men  find  a  great  plea- 
sure in  receiving  as  gospel. 

About  a  twelvemonth  since,  I  published 
a  little  book  of  verses  ;  it  was  read  by  some 
dozen  of  my  friends  who  lik'd  it;  and  some 


ENDYMION 


47 


dozen  whom  I  was  unacquainted  with,  who 
did  not. 

Now,  when  a  dozen  human  beings  are  at 
words  with  another  dozen,  it  becomes  a 
matter  of  anxiety  to  side  with  one's  friends 
—  more  especially  when  excited  thereto  by 
a  great  love  of  Poetry.  I  fought  under 
disadvantages.  Before  I  began  I  had  no 
inward  feel  of  being  able  to  finish ;  and  as 
I  proceeded  my  steps  were  all  uncertain. 
So  this  Poem  must  rather  be  considered  as 
an  endeavour  than  as  a  thing  accomplished ; 
a  poor  prologue  to  what,  if  I  live,  I  humbly 
hope  to  do.  In  duty  to  the  Public  I  should 
have  kept  it  back  for  a  year  or  two,  know- 
ing it  to  be  so  faulty ;  but  I  really  cannot 
do  so,  —  by  repetition  my  favourite  pas- 
sages sound  vapid  in  my  ears,  and  I  would 
rather  redeem  myself  with  a  new  Poem 
should  this  one  be  found  of  any  interest. 

I  have  to  apologize  to  the  lovers  of  sim- 
plicity for  touching  the  spell  of  loneliness 
that  hung  about  Endymion ;  if  any  of  my 
lines  plead  for  me  with  such  people  I  shall 
be  proud. 

It  has  been  too  much  the  fashion  of  late 
to  consider  men  bigoted  and  addicted  to 
every  word  that  may  chance  to  escape  their 
lips;  now  I  here  declare  that  I  have  not 
any  particular  affection  for  any  particular 
phrase,  word,  or  letter  in  the  whole  affair. 
I  have  written  to  please  myself,  and  in 
hopes  to  please  others,  and  for  a  love  of 
fame;  if  I  neither  please  myself,  nor 
others,  nor  get  fame,  of  what  consequence 
is  Phraseology. 

I  would  fain  escape  the  bickerings  that 
all  works  not  exactly  in  chime  bring  upon 
their  begetters  —  but  this  is  not  fair  to  ex- 
pect, there  must  be  conversation  of  some 
sort  and  to  object  shows  a  man's  conse- 
quence. In  case  of  a  London  drizzle  or  a 
Scotch  mist,  the  following  quotation  from 
Marston  may  perhaps  'stead  me  as  an  um- 
brella for  an  hour  or  so:  '  let  it  be  the  cur- 
tesy  of  my  peruser  rather  to  pity  my  self- 
hindering  labours  than  to  malice  me.' 

One  word   more — for  we  cannot  help 


seeing  our  own  affairs  in  every  point  of 
view  —  should  any  one  call  my  dedication 
to  Chatterton  affected  I  answer  as  follow- 
eth:  'Were   I  dead,  sir,  I  should  like  a 
book  dedicated  to  me.' 
TEIGNMOUTH, 
March  19fA,  1818. 

This  Preface  was  shown  either  before  or 
after  it  was  in  type  to  Reynolds  and  other 
friends,  and  Reynolds  objected  to  it  in 
terms  which  may  be  inferred  from  the  fol- 
lowing letter  which  Keats  wrote  him  April 
9, 1818,  and  which  is  so  striking  a  reflection 
of  his  mind,  when  contemplating  his  finished 
work,  that  it  should  be  read  in  connection 
with  the  poein:  — 

4  Since  you  all  agree  that  the  thing  is 
bad,  it  must  be  so  —  though  I  am  not  aware 
there  is  anything  like  Hunt  in  it  (and  if 
there  is,  it  is  my  natural  way,  and  I  have 
something  in  common  with  Hunt).  Look 
it  over  again,  and  examine  into  the  motives, 
the  seeds,  from  which  any  one  sentence 
sprung  —  I  have  not  the  slightest  feel  of 
humility  toward  the  public  —  or  to  anything 
in  existence,  —  but  the  eternal  Being,  the 
Principle  of  Beauty,  and  the  Memory  of 
Great  Men.  When  I  am  writing  for  my- 
self for  the  mere  sake  of  the  moment's 
enjoyment,  perhaps  nature  has  its  course 
with  me  —  but  a  Preface  is  written  to  the 
Public;  a  thing  I  cannot  help  looking  upon 
as  an  Enemy,  and  which  I  cannot  address 
without  feelings  of  Hostility.  If  I  write  a 
Preface  in  a  supple  or  subdued  style,  it  will 
not  be  in  character  with  me  as  a  public 
speaker  —  I  would  be  subdued  before  my 
friends,  and  thank  them  for  subduing  me  — 
but  among  Multitudes  of  Men  —  I  have  no 
feel  of  stooping;  I  hate  the  idea  of  hu- 
mility to  them. 

*  I  never  wrote  one  single  line  of  Poetry 
with  the  least  Shadow  of  public  thought. 

« Forgive  me  for  vexing  you  and  making 
a  Trojan  horse  of  such  a  Trifle,  both  with 
respect  to  the  matter  in  question,  and  my- 
self —  but  it  eases  me  to  tell  you  —  I  could 


ENDYMION 


not  live  without  the  love  of  my  friends  —  I 
would  jump  down  ^Etna  for  any  great  Pub- 
lic good  —  but  I  hate  a  mawkish  Popularity. 
I  cannot  be  subdued  before  them ;  my  Glory 
would  be  to  daunt  and  dazzle  the  thousand 
jabberers  about  pictures  and  books.  I  see 
swarms  of  Porcupines  with  their  quills 
erect  "like  lime-twigs  set  to  catch  my 
winged  book,"  and  I  would  fright  them  away 
with  a  torch.  You  will  say  my  Preface  is 
not  much  of  a  Torch.  It  would  have  been 
too  insulting  "  to  begin  from  Jove,"  and  I 
could  not  set  a  golden  head  upon  a  thing  of 
clay.  If  there  is  any  fault  in  the  Preface 
it  is  not  affectation,  but  an  undersong  of 
disrespect  to  the  Public.  If  I  write  an- 
other Preface,  it  must  be  without  a  thought 
of  those  people  —  I  will  think  about  it.  If  it 
should  not  reach  you  in  four  or  five  days,  tell 
Taylor  to  publish  it  without  a  Preface,  and 
let  the  Dedication  simply  stand  "  Inscribed 
to  the  Memory  of  Thomas  Chatterton." ' 
The  next  day  he  wrote  to  his  friend,  in- 
closing a  new  draft:  'I  am  anxious  you 
should  find  this  Preface  tolerable.  If  there 
is  an  affectation  in  it  't  is  natural  to  me. 
Do  let  the  Printer's  Devil  cook  it,  and  let 
me  be  as  "  the  casing  air."  You  are  too 
good  in  this  matter  —  were  I  in  your  state, 
I  am  certain  I  should  have  no  thought  but 
of  discontent  and  illness  —  I  might  though 
be  taught  Patience:  I  had  an  idea  of  giving 
no  Preface ;  however,  don't  you  think  this 
had  better  go  ?  O,  let  it  —  one  should  not 
be  too  timid  —  of  committing  faults.' 

The  Dedication  stood  as  Keats  proposed, 
and  the  new  Preface,  which  is  as  follows  : 

PREFACE 

KNOWING  within  myself  the  manner  in 
which  this  Poem  has  been  produced,  it  is 
not  without  a  feeling  of  regret  that  I  make 
it  public. 


What  manner  I  mean,  will  be  quite  clear 
to  the  reader,  who  must  soon  perceive  great 
inexperience,  immaturity,  and  every  error 
denoting  a  feverish  attempt,  rather  than  a 
deed  accomplished.  The  two  first  books, 
and  indeed  the  two  last,  I  feel  sensible  are 
not  of  such  completion  as  to  warrant  their 
passing  the  press;  nor  should  they  if  I 
thought  a  year's  castigation  would  do  them 
any  good;  —  it  will  not:  the  foundations  are 
too  sandy.  It  is  just  that  this  youngster 
should  die  away:  a  sad  thought  for  me,  if 
I  had  not  some  hope  that  while  it  is  dwin- 
dling I  may  be  plotting,  and  fitting  myself 
for  verses  fit  to  live. 

This  may  be  speaking  too  presumptu- 
ously, and  may  deserve  a  punishment:  but 
no  feeling  man  will  be  forward  to  inflict 
it:  he  will  leave  me  alone,  with  the  convic- 
tion that  there  is  not  a  fiercer  hell  than 
the  failure  in  a  great  object.  This  is  not 
written  with  the  least  atom  of  purpose  to 
forestall  criticisms  of  course,  but  from  the 
desire  I  have  to  conciliate  men  who  are 
competent  to  look,  and  who  do  look  with  a 
zealous  eye,  to  the  honour  of  English  lit- 
erature. 

The  imagination  of  a  boy  is  healthy,  and 
the  mature  imagination  of  a  man  is  healthy; 
but  there  is  a  space  of  life  between,  in  which 
the  soul  is  in  a  ferment,  the  character  un- 
decided, the  way  of  life  uncertain,  the 
ambition  thick-sighted:  thence  proceeds 
mawkishness,  and  all  the  thousand  bitters 
which  those  men  I  speak  of  must  necessarily 
taste  in  going  over  the  following  pages. 

I  hope  I  have  not  in  too  late  a  day 
touched  the  beautiful  mythology  of  Greece, 
and  dulled  its  brightness:  for  I  wish  to  try 
once  more,  before  I  bid  it  farewel. 

TEIGNMOUTH, 
April  10, 1818. 


BOOK   FIRST 


49 


BOOK   I 

A  THING  of  beauty  is  a  joy  for  ever: 
Its  loveliness  increases;  it  will  never 
Pass  into  nothingness;  but  still  will  keep 
A  bower  quiet  for  us,  and  a  sleep 
Full  of  sweet  dreams,  and  health,  and  quiet 

breathing. 

Therefore,  on  every  morrow,  are  we  wreath- 
ing 

A  flowery  band  to  bind  us  to  the  earth, 
Spite  of  despondence,  of  the  inhuman  dearth 
Of  noble  natures,  of  the  gloomy  days, 
Of   all   the  unhealthy  and   o'er  -  darken'd 

ways  10 

Made  for  our  searching:  yes,  in  spite  of 

all, 

Some  shape  of  beauty  moves  away  the  pall 
From  our  dark  spirits.     Such  the  sun,  the 

moon, 
Trees  old  and  young,  sprouting  a  shady 

boon 

For  simple  sheep;  and  such  are  daffodils 
With  the  green  world  they  live  in ;  and  clear 

rills 

That  for  themselves  a  cooling  covert  make 
'Gainst  the  hot  season ;  the  mid-forest  brake, 
Rich  with  a  sprinkling  of  fair  musk-rose 

blooms  :  19 

And  such  too  is  the  grandeur  of  the  dooms 
We  have  imagined  for  the  mighty  dead; 
All  lovely  tales  that  we  have  heard  or  read: 
An  endless  fountain  of  immortal  drink, 
Pouring  unto  us  from  the  heaven's  brink. 

Nor  do  we  merely  feel  these  essences 
For  one  short  hour;  no,  even  as  the  trees 
That  whisper  round  a  temple  become  soon 
Dear  as  the  temple's  self,  so  does  the  moon, 
The  passion  poesy,  glories  infinite,  29 

Haunt  us  till  they  become  a  cheering  light 
Unto  our  souls,  and  bound  to  us  so  fast, 
That,  whether  there  be  shine,  or  gloom  o'er- 

cast, 
They  alway  must  be  with  us,  or  we  die. 

Therefore  't  is  with  full  happiness  that  I 
Will  trace  the  story  of  Endymion. 


The  very  music  of  the  name  has  gone 
Into  my  being,  and  each  pleasant  scene 
Is  growing  fresh  before  me  as  the  green 
Of  our  own  valleys:  so  I  will  begin 
Now  while  I  cannot  hear  the  city's  din;    40 
Now  while  the  early  budders  are  just  new, 
And  run  in  mazes  of  the  youngest  hue 
About  old  forests;  while  the  willow  trails 
Its  delicate  amber;  and  the  dairy  pails 
Bring  home  increase  of  milk.     And,  as  the 

year 
Grows  lush  in  juicy  stalks,  I'll  smoothly 

steer 

My  little  boat,  for  many  quiet  hours, 
With  streams  that  deepen  freshly  into  bow- 
ers. 

Many  and  many  a  verse  I  hope  to  write, 
Before   the   daisies,   vermeil    rimm'd   and 
white,  50 

Hide  in  deep  herbage;  and  ere  yet  the  bees 
Hum  about  globes  of  clover  and  sweet  peas, 
I  must  be  near  the  middle  of  my  story. 
O  may  no  wintry  season,  bare,  and  hoary, 
See  it  half-finish'd:  but  let  Autumn  bold, 
With  universal  tinge  of  sober  gold, 
Be  all  about  me  when  I  make  an  end. 
And  now  at  once,  adventuresome,  I  send 
My  herald  thought  into  a  wilderness: 
There  let  its  trumpet  blow,  and  quickly 
dress  60 

My  uncertain  path  with  green,  that  I  may 

speed 
Easily  onward,  thorough  flowers  and  weed. 

Upon  the  sides  of  Latmos  was  outspread 
A  mighty  forest;  for  the  moist  earth  fed 
So  plenteously  all  weed-hidden  roots 
Into    o'erhanging    boughs,    and    precious 

fruits. 
And   it   had    gloomy   shades,   sequestered 

deep, 
Where  no  man  went;  and  if  from  shepherd's 

keep 
A  lamb  stray 'd  far  a-down  those  inmost 

glens, 

Never  again  saw  he  the  happy  pens  70 

Whither  his  brethren,  bleating  with  con- 
tent, 


5° 


ENDYMION 


Over  the  hills  at  every  nightfall  went. 
Among  the  shepherds,  'twas  believed  ever, 
That  not  one  fleecy  lamb  which  thus  did 

sever 

From  the  white  flock,  but  pass'd  unworried 
By  angry  wolf,  or  pard  with  prying  head, 
Until  it  came  to  some  unfooted  plains 
Where  fed  the  herds  of  Pan:  aye  great  his 

gains 
Who  thus  one  lamb  did  lose.     Paths  there 

were  many, 
Winding  through  palmy  fern,  and  rushes 

fenny,  80 

And  ivy  banks;  all  leading  pleasantly 
To  a  wide  lawn,  whence  one  could  only  see 
Stems  thronging  all  around   between  the 

swell 
Of  turf  and  slanting  branches:  who  could 

tell 
The    freshness    of    the   space   of    heaven 

above, 
Edged  round  with  dark  tree-tops  ?  through 

which  a  dove 

Would  often  beat  its  wings,  and  often  too 
A  little  cloud  would  move  across  the  blue. 

Full  in  the  middle  of  this  pleasantness 
There  stood  a  marble  altar,  with  a  tress  90 
Of  flowers  budded  newly;  and  the  dew 
Had  taken  fairy  phantasies  to  strew 
Daisies  upon  the  sacred  sward  last  eve, 
And  so  the  dawned  light  in  pomp  recer  ^- 
For  't  was  the  mornjij  Apollo's  upward  fire 
,de  every  eastern  cloud  a  silvery  pyre 
brightness  so  unsullied,  that  therein 
A  melancholy  spirit  well  might  win 
Oblivion,  and  melt  out  his  essence  fine 
Into  the  winds:  rain-scented  eglantine 
Gave  temperate  sweets  to  that  well-wooing 

sun; 

The  lark  was  lost  in  him;  cold  springs  had 
run 

their  chilliest  bubbles  in  the  grassy 
voice  was  on  the  mountains;  and  the 


Of 


Of  nature's  lives  and  wonders  pulsed  ten- 
fold, 
To  feel  this  sun-rise  and  its  glories  old. 


Now  while  the  silent  workings  of  the 

dawn 

Were  busiest,  into  that  self- same  lawn 
All  suddenly,  with  joyful  cries,  there  sped 
A  troop  of  little  children  garlanded;        no 
Who  gathering  round  the  altar  seem'd  to  pry 
Earnestly  round  as  wishing  to  espy 
Some  folk  of  holiday:  nor  had  they  waited 
For  many  moments,  ere   their   ears  were 

sated 
With  a  faint  breath  of  music,  which  ev'n 

then 

Fill'd  out  its  voice,  and  died  away  again. 
Within  a  little  space  again  it  gave 
Its  airy  swellings,  with  a  gentle  wave, 
To  light-hung  leaves,  in  smoothest  echoes 

breaking 
Through    copse  -  clad   valleys,  —  ere   their 

death,  o'ertaking  120 

The  surgy  murmurs  of  the  lonely  sea. 

And  now,  as  deep  into  the  wood  as  we 
Might  mark  a  lynx's  eye,  there  glimmer'd 

light 

Fair  faces  and  a  rush  of  garments  white, 
Plainer  and  plainer  showing,  till  at  last 
Into  the  widest  alley  they  all  past, 
Making  directly  for  the  woodland  altar. 
O  kindly  muse  !  let  not  my  weak  tongue 

faulter 

In  telling  of  this  goodly  company, 
Of  their  old  piety,  and  of  their  glee:        ij 
But  let  a  portion  of  ethereal  dew 
Fall  on  my  head,  and  presently  unmew 
My  soul;  that  I  may  dare,  in  wayfaring, 
To   stammer  where  old  Chaucer  used  to 

sing. 

Leading  the  way,  young  damsels  danced 

along, 

Bearing  the  burden  of  a  shepherd  song; 
Each  having  a  white  wicker,  overbrimm'd 
With  April's  tender  younglings:  next,  well 

trimm'd, 
A  crowd  of  shepherds  with   as  sunburnt 

looks 

As  may  be  read  of  in  Arcadian  books ;     140 
Such  as  sat  listening  round  Apollo's  pipe, 


BOOK   FIRST 


When  the  great  deity,  for  earth  too  ripe, 
Let  his  divinity  o'erflowing  die 
In  music,  through  the  vales  of  Thessaly: 
Some  idly  trail'd  their  sheep-hooks  on  the 

ground, 

And  some  kept  up  a  shrilly  mellow  sound 
With  ebon-tipped  flutes:  close  after  these, 
Now  coming  from  beneath  the  forest  trees, 
A  venerable  priest  full  soberly, 
Begirt  with   minist'ring  looks:    alway  his 

eye  150 

Steadfast  upon  the  matted  turf  he  kept, 
And  after  him  his  sacred  vestments  swept. 
From  his  right  hand  there  swung  a  vase, 

milk-white, 
Of  mingled  wine,  out-sparkling  generous 

light; 

And  in  his  left  he  held  a  basket  full 
Of  all  sweet  herbs  that  searching  eye  could 

cull: 

Wild  thyme,  and  valley-lilies  whiter  still 
Than  Leda's  love,  and  cresses  from  the  rill. 
His    aged    head,    crowned    with    beechen 

wreath, 

Seem'd  like  a  poll  of  ivy  in  the  teeth       160 
Of    winter     hoar.     Then     came     another 

crowd 

Of  shepherds,  lifting  in  due  time  aloud 
Their  share  of  the  ditty.     After  them  ap- 

pear'd, 

Up-follow'd  by  a  multitude  that  rear'd 
Their  voices  to  the  clouds,  a  fair-wrought 

car, 

Easily  rolling  so  as  scarce  to  mar 
The   freedom   of   three   steeds   of   dapple 

brown: 

Who  stood  therein  did  seem  of  great  re- 
nown 
Among  the  throng.     His  youth  was  fully 

blown, 

Showing  like  Ganymede  to  manhood  grown ; 
And,  for  those  simple  times,  his  garments 

were  t?I 

A  chieftain  king's  ;  beneath  his  breast,  half 

bare, 

Was  hung  a  silver  bugle,  and  between 
His  nervy   knees   there   lay  a   boar-spear 

keen. 


A  smile  was  on  his  countenance  ;  he  seem'd 
To  common  lookers-on,  like  one  who 

dream'd 

Of  idleness  in  groves  Elysian: 
But  there  were  some  who  feelingly  could 

scan 

A  lurking  trouble  in  his  nether  lip, 
And  see  that  oftentimes  the  reins  would  slip 
Through  his  forgotten  hands:  then  would 

they  sigh,  181 

And  think  of  yellow  leaves,  of  owlets'  cry, 
Of  logs  piled  solemnly.  —  Ah,  well-a-day, 
Why  should  our  young  Endymion  pine 

away ! 

Soon  the  assembly,  in  a  circle  ranged, 
Stood  silent  round  the  shrine:  each  look 

was  changed 

To  sudden  veneration:  women  meek 
Beckon'd  their  sons  to  silence;  while  each 

cheek 

Of  virgin  bloom  paled  gently  for  slight  fear. 
Endymion  too,  without  a  forest  peer,  190 
Stood,  wan,  and  pale,  and  with  an  awed 

face, 

Among  his  brothers  of  the  mountain  chase. 
In  midst  of  all,  the  venerable  priest 
Eyed  them  with  joy  from  greatest  to  the 

least, 

And,  after  lifting  up  his  aged  hands, 
Thus  spake  he:  '  Men  of  Latinos  !  shepherd 

bands ! 

Whose  care  it  is  to  guard  a  thousand  flocks: 
Whether  descended  from  beneath  the  rocks 
That  overtop  your  mountains;  whether 

come 
From   valleys    where    the    pipe   is   never 

dumb;  20o 

Or  from  your  swelling  downs,  where  sweet 

air  stirs 
Blue  harebells  lightly,  and  where  prickly 

furze 
Buds  lavish  gold;  or  ye,  whose  precious 

charge 

Nibble  their  fill  at  ocean's  very  marge, 
Whose    mellow    reeds    are    touch'd   with 

sounds  forlorn 
By  the  dim  echoes  of  old  Triton's  horn : 


52 


ENDYMION 


Mothers  and  wives  !  who  day  by  day  pre- 
pare 

The  scrip,  with  needments,  for  the  moun- 
tain air; 

And  all  ye  gentle  girls  who  foster  up 
Udderless  lambs,  and  in  a  little  cup         210 
Will  put  choice  honey  for  a  favour'd  youth: 
Yea,  every  one  attend  !  for  in  good  truth 
Our  vows  are  wanting  to  our  great  god 

Pan. 

Are  not  our  lowing  heifers  sleeker  than 
Night-swollen  mushrooms  ?     Are  not  our 

wide  plains 
Speckled  with  countless  fleeces  ?     Have 

not  rains 

Green'd  over  April's  lap  ?     No  howling  sad 
Sickens  our  fearful  ewes;  and  we  have  had 
Great  bounty  from  Endymion  our  lord. 
The   earth   is   glad:    the   merry   lark   has 
pour'd  220 

His  early  song  against  yon  breezy  sky, 
That  spreads  so  clear  o'er  our  solemnity.' 

Thus  ending,  on  the  shrine  he  heap'd  a 

spire 

Of  teeming  sweets,  enkindling  sacred  fire; 
Anon  he  stain'd  the  thick  and  spongy  sod 
With  wine,  in  honour  of  the  shepherd-god. 
Now  while  the  earth  was  drinking  it,  and 

while 
Bay  leaves  were  crackling  in  the  fragrant 

pile, 
And   gummy  frankincense  was   sparkling 

bright 
'Neath   smothering    parsley,   and    a  hazy 

light  230 

Spread    grayly    eastward,   thus   a   chorus 


*  O  thou,  whose  mighty  palace  roof  doth 

hang 

From  jagged  trunks,  and  overshadoweth 
Eternal  whispers,  glooms,  the  birth,  life, 

death 

Of  unseen  flowers  in  heavy  peacef ulness ; 
Who  lov'st  to  see  the  hamadryads  dress 
Their  ruffled  locks  where  meeting  hazels 

darken; 


And  through  whole  solemn  hours  dost  sit, 

and  hearken 

The  dreary  melody  of  bedded  reeds  — 
In  desolate  places,  where  dank  moisture 

breeds  240 

The  pipy  hemlock  to  strange  overgrowth; 
Bethinking  thee,  how  melancholy  loth 
Thou  wast  to  lose  fair  Syrinx  —  do  thou 

now, 

By  thy  love's  milky  brow  ! 
By  all  the  trembling  mazes  that  she  ran, 
Hear  us,  great  Pan  ! 

'  O  thou,  for  whose  soul-soothing  quiet, 

turtles 

Passion  their  voices  cooingly  'mong  myrtles, 
What  time  thou  wanderest  at  eventide 
Through  sunny  meadows,  that  outskirt  the 
side  250 

Of  thine  enmossed  realms:  O  thou,  to  whom 
Broad-leaved  fig-trees  even  now  foredoom 
Their  ripen'd  fruitage ;  yellow-girted  bees 
Their  golden  honeycombs;  our  village  leas 
Their  fairest  blossom'd  beans  and  poppied 

corn; 

The  chuckling  linnet  its  five  young  unborn, 
To  sing  for  thee ;  low-creeping  strawberries 
Their  summer  coolness;  pent-up  butterflies 
Their  freckled  wings;  yea,  the  fresh-bud- 
ding year 

All  its  completions  —  be  quickly  near,  260 
By  every  wind  that  nods  the  mountain  pine, 
O  forester  divine  ! 

*  Thou,  to  whom  every  faun  and  satyr 

flies 

For  willing  service;  whether  to  surprise 
The  squatted  hare  while  in  half-sleeping 

fit; 

Or  upward  ragged  precipices  flit 
To  save  poor  lambkins  from  the  eagle's 

maw; 

Or  by  mysterious  enticement  draw 
Bewilder'd  shepherds  to  their  path  again; 
Or  to  tread  breathless  round  the  frothy 

main,  270 

And  gather  up  all  fancifullest  shells 
For  thee  to  tumble  into  Naiads'  cells, 


BOOK   FIRST 


53 


And,  being  hidden,  laugh  at  their  out-peep- 
ing; 

Or  to  delight  thee  with  fantastic  leaping, 

The  while  they  pelt  each  other  on  the 
crown 

With  silvery  oak-apples,  and  fir-cones 
brown  — 

By  all  the  echoes  that  about  thee  ring, 

Hear  us,  O  satyr  king  ! 

<O    Hearkener    to    the    loud  -  clapping 

shears, 

While  ever  and  anon  to  his  shorn  peers  280 
A  ram  goes  bleating:  Winder  of  the  horn, 
When  snouted  wild-boars  routing  tender 

corn 
Anger  our  huntsman:  Breather  round  our 

farms, 
To   keep    off    mildews,    and    all    weather 

harms: 

Strange  ministrant  of  undescribed  sounds, 
That  come  a-swooning  over  hollow  grounds, 
And  wither  drearily  on  barren  moors: 
Dread  opener  of  the  mysterious  doors 
Leading  to  universal  knowledge  —  see, 
Great  son  of  Dryope,  290 

The  many  that  are  come  to  pay  their  vows 
With  leaves  about  their  brows  ! 

*  Be  still  the  unimaginable  lodge 

For  solitary  thinkings;  such  as  dodge 

Conception  to  the  very  bourne  of  heaven, 

Then  leave  the  naked  brain:  be  still  the 
leaven, 

That  spreading  in  this  dull  and  clodded 
earth 

Gives  it  a  touch  ethereal  —  a  new  birth: 

Be  still  a  symbol  of  immensity; 

A  firmament  reflected  in  a  sea;  300 

An  element  filling  the  space  between; 

An  unknown  —  but  no  more:  we  humbly 
screen 

With  uplift  hands  our  foreheads,  lowly 
bending, 

And  giving  out  a  shout  most  heaven-rend- 
ing* 

Conjure  thee  to  receive  our  humble  Paean, 

Upon  thy  Mount  Lycean  ! ' 


Even  while  they  brought  the  burden  to  a 

close, 

A  shout  from  the  whole  multitude  arose, 
That  linger'd  in  the  air  like  dying  rolls 
Of  abrupt  thunder,  when  Ionian  shoals    3 10 
Of  dolphins  bob  their  noses  through  the 

brine. 

Meantime,  on  shady  levels,  mossy  fine, 
Young  companies  nimbly  began  dancing 
To   the   swift   treble  pipe,  and  humming 

string. 

Aye,  those  fair  living  forms  swam  heavenly 
To  tunes  forgotten  —  out  of  memory: 
Fair   creatures !    whose   young    children's 

children  bred 

Thermopylae  its  heroes  —  not  yet  dead, 
But  in  old  marbles  ever  beautiful. 
High  genitors,  unconscious  did  they  cull  320 
Time's  sweet  first-fruits  —  they  danced  to 

weariness, 

And  then  in  quiet  circles  did  they  press 
The  hillock  turf,  and  caught  the  latter  end 
Of  some  strange  history,  potent  to  send 
A  young  mind  from  its  bodily  tenement. 
Or  they  might  watch   the   quoit-pitchers, 

intent 

On  either  side;  pitying  the  sad  death 
Of  Hyacinthus,  when  the  cruel  breath 
Of  Zephyr  slew  him,  —  Zephyr  penitent, 
Who  now,  ere  Phoebus  mounts  the  firma- 
ment, 330 
Fondles  the  flower  amid  the  sobbing  rain. 
The  archers  too,  upon  a  wider  plain, 
Beside  the  feathery  whizzing  of  the  shaft, 
And  the  dull  twanging  bowstring,  and  the 

raft 

Branch  down  sweeping  from  a  tall  ash  top, 
CalPd  up  a  thousand  thoughts  to  envelope 
Those  who  would  watch.  Perhaps,  the 

trembling  knee 

And  frantic  gape  of  lonely  Niobe, 
Poor,  lonely  Niobe  !  when  her  lovely  young 
Were   dead  and  gone,  and  her  caressing 

tongue  340 

Lay  a  lost  thing  upon  her  paly  lip, 
And  very,  very  deadliness  did  nip 
Her  motherly  cheeks.     Aroused  from  this 

sad  mood 


54 


ENDYMION 


By  one,  who  at  a  distance  loud  halloo'd, 
Uplifting  his  strong  bow  into  the  air, 
Many  might  after  brighter  visions  stare: 
After  the  Argonauts,  in  blind  amaze 
Tossing  about  on  Neptune's  restless  ways, 
Until,  from  the  horizon's  vaulted  side, 
There   shot   a   golden   splendour  far  and 
wide,  350 

Spangling  those   million   poutings   of   the 

brine 
With  quivering  ore:  't  was  even  an  awful 

shine 

From  the  exaltation  of  Apollo's  bow; 
A  heavenly  beacon  in  their  dreary  woe. 
Who  thus  were  ripe  for  high  contemplating, 
Might  turn  their  steps  towards  the  sober 

ring 

Where  sat  Endymion  and  the  aged  priest 
'Mong  shepherds  gone  in  eld,  whose  looks 

increased 

The  silvery  setting  of  their  mortal  star. 
There   they   discoursed   upon    the   fragile 
bar  360 

That  keeps  us  from  our  homes  ethereal; 
And  what  our  duties  there :  to  nightly  call 
Vesper,  the  beauty-crest  of  summer  wea- 
ther; 

To  summon  all  the  downiest  clouds  together 
For  the  sun's  purple  couch;  to  emulate 
In  minist'ring  the  potent  rule  of  fate 
With  speed  of  fire-tail'd  exhalations; 
To  tint  her  pallid  cheek  with  bloom,  who 

cons 

Sweet  poesy  by  moonlight:  besides  these, 
A  world  of  other  unguess'd  offices.  370 

Anon  they  wander'd,  by  divine  converse, 
Into  Elysium;  vying  to  rehearse 
Each  one  his  own  anticipated  bliss. 
One  felt  heart-certain  that  he  could  not 

miss 
His  quick-gone  love,  among  fair  blossom'd 

boughs, 

Where  every  zephyr-sigh  pouts,  and  endows 
Her  lips  with  music  for  the  welcoming. 
Another  wish'd,  'mid  that  eternal  spring, 
To  meet  his  rosy  child,  with  feathery  sails, 
Sweeping,  eye-earnestly,  through  almond 
vales:  380 


Who,  suddenly,  should  stoop  through  the 

smooth  wind, 
And  with  the  balmiest  leaves  his  temples 

bind; 

And,  ever  after,  through  those  regions  be 
His  messenger,  his  little  Mercury. 
Some  were  athirst  in  soul  to  see  again 
Their  fellow-huntsmen  o'er  the  wide  cham- 
paign 
In  times  long  past;  to  sit  with  them,  and 

talk 

Of  all  the  chances  in  their  earthly  walk; 
Comparing,  joyfully,  their  plenteous  stores 
Of  happiness,  to  when  upon  the  moors,    390 
Benighted,  close  they  huddled   from   the 

cold, 
And   shared  their  famish'd  scrips.     Thus 

all  out-told 

Their  fond  imaginations,  —  saving  him 
Whose   eyelids   curtain'd  up  their  jewels 

dim, 

Endymion:  yet  hourly  had  he  striven 
To   hide    the   cankering  venom,  that  had 

riven 

His  fainting  recollections.     Now  indeed 
His  senses  had  swoon'd  off:  he  did  not  heed 
The  sudden  silence,  or  the  whispers  low, 
Or  the  old  eyes  dissolving  at  his  woe,      400 
Or   anxious    calls,   or   close   of  trembling 

palms, 

Or  maiden's  sigh,  that  grief  itself  embalms: 
But  in  the  self-same  fixed  trance  he  kept, 
Like  one  who  on  the  earth  had  never  stept. 
Aye,  even  as  dead-still  as  a  marble  man, 
Frozen  in  that  old  tale  Arabian. 

Who   whispers   him    so    pantingly   and 

close  ? 

Peona,  his  sweet  sister:  of  all  those, 
His  friends,  the  dearest.     Hushing   signs 

she  made, 

And   breathed   a  sister's   sorrow  to    per- 
suade 410 
A  yielding  up,  a  cradling  on  her  care. 
Her  eloquence  did  breathe  away  the  curse: 
She  led  him,  like  some  midnight  spirit  nurse 
Of  happy  changes  in  emphatic  dreams, 
Along  a  path  between  two  little  streams,  — 


BOOK   FIRST 


55 


Guarding  his   forehead,    with    her    round 

elbow, 

From  low-grown  branches,  and  his  foot- 
steps slow 
From  stumbling  over  stumps  and  hillocks 

small; 
Until  they  came  to  where  these  streamlets 

fall, 

With    mingled    bubblings   and    a    gentle 
rush,  420 

Into  a  river,  clear,  brimful,  and  flush 
With   crystal   mocking   of    the   trees   and 

sky. 

A  little  shallop,  floating  there  hard  by, 
Pointed  its  beak  over  the  fringed  bank; 
And  soon  it  lightly  dipt,  and  rose,  and  sank, 
And  dipt  again,  with  the  young  couple's 

weight,  — 

Peona  guiding,  through  the  water  straight, 
Towards  a  bowery  island  opposite; 
Which  gaining  presently,  she  steered  light 
Into  a  shady,  fresh,  and  ripply  cove,        430 
Where  nested  was  an  arbour,  overwove 
By  many  a  summer's  silent  fingering; 
To  whose  cool  bosom  she  was  used  to  bring 
Her  playmates,  with   their   needle   broid- 
ery, 
And  minstrel  memories  of  times  gone  by. 

So  she  was  gently  glad  to  see  him  laid 
Under  her  favourite  bower's  quiet  shade, 
On  her  own  couch,  new  made  of  flower 

leaves, 

Dried  carefully  on  the  cooler  side  of  sheaves 
When    last    the    sun   his   autumn   tresses 

shook,  44o 

And   the   tann'd   harvesters   rich  armfuls 

took. 

Soon  was  he  quieted  to  slumbrous  rest: 
But,  ere  it  crept  upon  him,  he  had  prest 
Peona's  busy  hand  against  his  lips, 
And  still,  a-sleeping,  held  her  finger-tips 
In  tender  pressure.     And  as  a  willow  keeps 
A  patient  watch  over  the  stream  that  creeps 
Windingly  by  it,  so  the  quiet  maid 
Held  her  in  peace:  so  that  a  whispering 

blade 
Of  grass,  a  wailful  gnat,  a  bee  bustling  45o 


Down   in   the   bluebells,  or  a  wren   light 

rustling 
Among  sere  leaves  and  twigs,  might  all  be 

heard. 

O  magic  sleep  !  O  comfortable  bird, 
That  broodest  o'er  the  troubled  sea  of  the 

mind 

Till  it  is  hush'd  and  smooth  !   O  unconfined 
Restraint !  imprison'd  liberty  !  great  key 
To  golden  palaces,  strange  minstrelsy, 
Fountains  grotesque,  new  trees,  bespangled 

caves, 

Echoing  grottoes,  full  of  tumbling  waves 
And    moonlight;    aye,    to    all    the    mazy 

world  46o 

Of  silvery  enchantment !  —  who,  upf url'd 
Beneath  thy  drowsy  wing  a  triple  hour, 
But  renovates  and  lives?  —  Thus,  in  the 

bower, 

Endymion  was  calm'd  to  life  again. 
Opening  his  eyelids  with  a  healthier  brain, 
He  said:  'I  feel  this  thine  endearing  love 
All  through  my  bosom:  thou  art  as  a  dove 
Trembling    its    closed    eyes  and    sleeked 

wings 

About  me;  and  the  pearliest  dew  not  brings 
Such  morning  incense  from  the  fields  of 

May,  47o 

As  do  those  brighter  drops  that  twinkling 

stray 
From  those  kind  eyes,  —  the  very  home  and 

haunt 

Of  sisterly  affection.     Can  I  want 
Aught  else,  aught  nearer  heaven,  than  such 

tears  ? 

Yet  dry  them  up,  in  bidding  hence  all  fears 
That,  any  longer,  I  will  pass  my  days 
Alone  and  sad.     No,  I  will  once  more  raise 
My  voice  upon  the  mountain-heights;  once 

more 
Make  my  horn  parley  from  their  foreheads 

hoar: 
Again  my  trooping  hounds  their  tongues 

shall  loll  480 

Around  the  breathed  boar:  again  I'll  poll 
The  fair-grown  yew-tree,  for  a  chosen  bow: 
And,  when  the  pleasant  sun  is  getting  low, 


ENDYMION 


Again  I  '11  linger  in  a  sloping  mead 
To  hear  the  speckled  thrushes,  and  see  feed 
Our  idle  sheep.     So  be  thou  cheered,  sweet ! 
And,  if  thy  lute  is  here,  softly  intreat 
My  soul  to  keep  in  its  resolved  course.' 

Hereat  Peona,  in  their  silver  source, 
Shut  her  pure  sorrow-drops  with  glad  ex- 
claim, 490 
And  took  a  lute,  from  which  there  pulsing 

came 

A  lively  prelude,  fashioning  the  way 
In  which  her  voice  should  wander.     'T  was 

a  lay 

More  subtle  cadenced,  more  forest  wild 
Than  Dryope's  lone  lulling  of  her  child; 
And  nothing  since  has  floated  in  the  air 
So  mournful  strange.     Surely  some  influ- 
ence rare 

Went,  spiritual,  through  the  damsel's  hand ; 
For  still,  with  Delphic  emphasis,  shespann'd 
The   quick  invisible  strings,  even  though 
she  saw  500 

Endymion's  spirit  melt  away  and  thaw 
Before  the  deep  intoxication. 
But  soon  she  came,  with  sudden  burst,  upon 
Her  self-possession  —  swung  the  lute  aside, 
And  earnestly  said :  '  Brother,  't  is  vain  to 

hide 

That  thou  dost  know  of  things  mysterious, 
Immortal,  starry;  such  alone  could  thus 
Weigh  down  thy  nature.     Hast  thou  sinn'd 

in  aught 

Offensive  to  the  heavenly  powers  ?  Caught 
A  Paphian  dove  upon  a  message  sent  ?  510 
Thy  deathf  ul  bow  against  some  deer-herd 

bent, 

Sacred  to  Dian  ?     Haply,  thou  hast  seen 
Her  naked  limbs  among  the  alders  green; 
And  that,  alas  !  is  death.     No,  I  can  trace 
Something  more  high  perplexing  in  thy 
face  ! ' 

Endymion  look'd  at  her,  and  press'd  her 

hand, 
And  said,  '  Art  thou  so  pale,  who  wast  so 

bland 
And  merry  in  our  meadows  ?  How  is  this  ? 


Tell  me  thine  ailment:  tell  me  all  amiss  !  — 
Ah  !  thou  hast  been  unhappy  at  the  change 
Wrought  suddenly  in  me.  What  indeed 

more  strange  ?  521 

Or  more  complete  to  overwhelm  surmise  ? 
Ambition  is  no  sluggard:  'tis  no  prize, 
That  toiling  years   would  put  within   my 

grasp, 

That  I  have  sigh'd  for:  with  so  deadly  gasp 
No  man  e'er  panted  for  a  mortal  love. 
So  all  have  set  my  heavier  grief  above 
These  things  which  happen.     Rightly  have 

they  done: 

I,  who  still  saw  the  horizontal  sun 
Heave  his  broad  shoulder  o'er  the  edge  of 

the  world,  530 

Out-facing  Lucifer,  and  then  had  hurl'd 
My  spear  aloft,  as  signal  for  the  chase  — 
I,   who,   for   very   sport   of   heart,    would 

race 
With  my  own  steed  from  Araby;   pluck 

down 

A  vulture  from  his  towery  perching;  frown 
A  lion  into  growling,  loth  retire  — 
To  lose,  at  once,  all  my  toil-breeding  fire, 
And  sink  thus  low  !  but  I  will  ease  my 

breast 
Of  secret  grief,  here  in  this  bowery  nest. 

'  This  river  does  not  see  the  naked  sky, 
Till  it  begins  to  progress  silverly  541 

Around  the  western  border  of  the  wood, 
Whence,  from  a  certain  spot,  its  winding 

flood 

Seems  at  the  distance  like  a  crescent  moon: 
And  in  that  nook,  the  very  pride  of  June, 
Had  I  been  used  to  pass  my  weary  eves; 
The  rather  for  the  sun  unwilling  leaves 
So  dear  a  picture  of  his  sovereign  power, 
And  I  could  witness  his  most  kingly  hour, 
When  he  doth  tighten  up  the  golden  reins, 
And  paces  leisurely  down  amber  plains  551 
His  snorting  four.     Now  when  his  chariot 

last 

Its  beams  against  the  zodiac-lion  cast, 
There  blossom'd  suddenly  a  magic  bed 
Of  sacred  ditamy,  and  poppies  red: 
At  which  I  wondered  greatly,  knowing  well 


BOOK   FIRST 


57 


That  but  one  night  had  wrought  this  flow- 
ery spell; 

And,  sitting  down  close  by,  began  to  muse 
What  it  might  mean.     Perhaps,  thought  I, 

Morpheus, 

In  passing  here,  his  owlet  pinions  shook; 
Or,  it  may  be,  ere  matron  Night  uptook  561 
Her  ebon  urn,  young  Mercury,  by  stealth, 
Had  dipt  his  rod  in  it:  such  garland  wealth 
Came  not  by  common  growth.     Thus  on  I 

thought, 

Until  my  head  was  dizzy  and  distraught. 
Moreover,    through   the    dancing   poppies 

stole 

A  breeze,  most  softly  lulling  to  my  soul; 
And  shaping  visions  all  about  my  sight 
Of  colours,  wings,  and  bursts  of  spangly 

light; 
The    which    became    more    strange,    and 

strange,  and  dim,  57o 

And  then  were  gulf  'd  in  a  tumultuous  swim : 
And  then  I  fell  asleep.     Ah,  can  I  tell 
The  enchantment  that  afterwards  befell  ? 
Yet  it  was  but  a  dream:  yet  such  a  drearn 
That  never  tongue,  although  it  overteem 
With    mellow    utterance,    like    a    cavern 

spring, 

Could  figure  out  and  to  conception  bring 
All  I  beheld  and  felt.     Methought  I  lay 
Watching  the  zenith,  where  the  milky  way 
Among  the  stars  in  virgin  splendour  pours; 
And  travelling  my  eye,  until  the  doors    581 
Of  heaven  appear'd  to  open  for  my  flight, 
I  became  loth  and  fearful  to  alight 
From  such  high  soaring  by  a  downward 

glance  : 

So  kept  me  steadfast  in  that  airy  trance, 
Spreading  imaginary  pinions  wide. 
When,  presently,  the  stars  began  to  glide, 
And  faint  away,  before  my  eager  view: 
At  which  I  sigh'd  that  I  could  not  pursue, 
And  dropt  my  vision  to  the  horizon's  verge ; 
And    lo  !    from    opening    clouds,    I    saw 

emerge  59i 

The  loveliest  moon,  that  ever  silver'd  o'er 
A  shell   for  Neptune's  goblet ;    she    did 

soar 
So  passionately  bright,  my  dazzled  soul 


Commingling  with  her  argent  spheres  did 
roll 

Through  clear  and  cloudy,  even  when  she 
went 

At  last  into  a  dark  and  vapoury  tent  — 

Whereat,  methought,  the  lidless-eyed  train 

Of  planets  all  were  in  the  blue  again. 

To  commune  with  those  orbs,  once  more  I 
raised  600 

My  sight  right  upward:  but  it  was  quite 
dazed 

By  a  bright  something,  sailing  down  apace, 

Making  me  quickly  veil  my  eyes  and  face: 

Again  I  look'd,  and,  O  ye  deities, 

Who  from  Olympus  watch  our  destinies  ! 

Whence  that  completed  form  of  all  com- 
pleteness ? 

Whence  came  that  high  perfection  of  all 
sweetness  ? 

Speak,  stubborn  earth,  and  tell  me  where, 
O  where 

Hast  thou  a  symbol  of  her  golden  hair  ? 

Not  oat-sheaves  drooping  in  the  western 
sun;  610 

Not  —  thy  soft  hand,  fair  sister  !  let  me 
shun 

Such  f ollying  before  thee  —  yet  she  had, 

Indeed,  locks  bright  enough  to  make  me 
mad; 

And  they  were  simply  gordian'd  up  and 
braided, 

Leaving,  in  naked  comeliness,  unshaded, 

Her  pearl  round  ears,  white  neck,  and 
orbed  brow  ; 

The  which  were  blended  in,  I  know  not 
how, 

With  such  a  paradise  of  lips  and  eyes, 

Blush-tinted  cheeks,  half  smiles,  and  faint- 
est sighs, 

That,  when  I  think  thereon,  my  spirit 
clings  620 

And  plays  about  its  fancy,  till  the  stings 

Of  human  neighbourhood  envenom  all. 

Unto  what  awful  power  shall  I  call  ? 

To  what  high  fane  ?  —  Ah  !  see  her  hover- 
ing feet, 

More  bluely  vein'd,  more  soft,  more  whitely 
sweet 


ENDYMION 


Than  those  of  sea-born  Venus,  when  she 

rose 

From  out  her  cradle  shell.     The  wind  out- 
blows 

Her  scarf  into  a  fluttering  pavilion  ; 
'T  is  blue,  and  over-spangled  with  a  million 
Of  little  eyes,  as  though  thou  wert  to  shed, 
Over  the  darkest,  lushest  bluebell  bed,    631 
Handf uls   of    daisies.'  — '  Endymion,   how 

strange  ! 
Dream  within  dream  ! '  — «  She   took   an 

airy  range, 

And  then,  towards  me,  like  a  very  maid, 
Came  blushing,  waning,  willing,  and  afraid, 
And  press'd  me  by  the  hand:  Ah  !  'twas 

too  much; 

Methought  I  fainted  at  the  charmed  touch, 
Yet  held  my  recollection,  even  as  one 
Who  dives  three  fathoms  where  the  waters 

run 

Gurgling  in  beds  of  coral:  for  anon,        640 
I  felt  upmounted  in  that  region 
Where  falling  stars  dart  their  artillery  forth, 
And   eagles   struggle    with   the    buffeting 

north 

That  balances  the  heavy  meteor-stone ;  — 
Felt  too,  I  was  not  fearful,  nor  alone, 
But  lapp'd  and  lull'd  along  the  dangerous 

sky. 
Soon,  as  it  seem'd,  we  left  our  journeying 

high, 
And    straightway    into    frightful    eddies 

swoop'd; 
Such  as  ay  muster  where  gray  time  has 

scoop'd 
Huge   dens   and   caverns  in  a  mountain's 

side:  650 

There   hollow  sounds   aroused  me,  and  I 

sigh'd 

To  faint  once  more  by  looking  on  my  bliss  — 
I  was  distracted;  madly  did  I  kiss 
The  wooing  arms  which  held  me,  and  did 

give 

My  eyes  at  once  to  death  :  but 't  was  to  live, 
To  take  in  draughts  of  life  from  the  gold 

fount 
Of  kind  and  passionate   looks;   to  count, 

and  count 


The  moments,  by  some  greedy  help  that 

seem'd 

A  second  self,  that  each  might  be  redeem'd 
And   plunder'd    of    its    load    of    blessed- 
ness. 66o 
Ah,  desperate  mortal !    I  ev'n  dared  to  press 
Her  very  cheek  against  my  crowned  lip, 
And,  at  that  moment,  felt  my  body  dip 
Into  a  warmer  air:  a  moment  more, 
Our  feet  were  soft  in  flowers.     There  was 

store 

Of  newest  joys  upon  that  alp.     Sometimes 
A  scent  of  violets,  and  blossoming  limes, 
Loiter'd  around  us;  then  of  honey  cells, 
Made  delicate  from  all  white-flower  bells; 
And  once,  above  the  edges  of  our  nest,    670 
An   arch   face   peep'd,  —  an    Oread   as   I 
guess'd. 

1  Why  did  I  dream  that  sleep  o'erpower'd 

me 

In  midst  of  all  this  heaven  ?     Why  not  see, 
Far  off,  the  shadows  of  his  pinions  dark, 
And  stare  them  from  me  ?     But  no,  like  a 

spark 
That   needs  must  die,  although   its   little 

beam 

Reflects  upon  a  diamond,  my  sweet  dream 
Fell  into  nothing  —  into  stupid  sleep. 
And  so  it  was,  until  a  gentle  creep, 
A    careful    moving    caught     my    waking 

ears,  680 

And  up  I  started:  Ah  !  my  sighs,  my  tears, 
My  clenched  hands;  —  for  lo  !  the  poppies 

hung 

Dew-dabbled  on  their  stalks,  the  ouzel  sung 
A  heavy  ditty,  and  the  sullen  day 
Had  chidden  herald  Hesperus  away, 
With  leaden  looks:  the  solitary  breeze 
Bluster'd,  and  slept,  and  its  wild  self  did 

tease 

With  wayward  melancholy;  and  I  thought, 
Mark  me,  Peona  !  that  sometimes  it  brought 
Faint  f  are  -thee-  wells,  and  sigh -shrilled 

adieus  !  —  690 

Away  I  wander 'd  —  all  the  pleasant  hues 
Of  heaven  and  earth  had  faded:   deepest 

shades 


BOOK   FIRST 


59 


Were  deepest  dungeons;  heaths  and  sunny 

glades 
Were  full  of  pestilent  light;  our  taintless 

rills 
Seem'd  sooty,  and  o'erspread  with  upturn'd 

gills 

Of  dying  fish;  the  vermeil  rose  had  blown 
In  frightful  scarlet,  and  its  thorns  outgrown 
Like  spiked  aloe.     If  an  innocent  bird 
Before  my  heedless  footsteps  stirr'd,  and 

stirr'd 

In  little  journeys,  I  beheld  in  it  700 

A  disguised  demon,  missioned  to  knit 
My  soul  with  under  darkness;  to  entice 
My  stumblings  down  some  monstrous  pre- 
cipice: 

Therefore  I  eager  follow'd,  and  did  curse 
The    disappointment.      Time,    that    aged 

nurse, 
Rock'd  me  to  patience.     Now,  thank  gentle 

heaven  ! 
These   things,  with  all  their  comfortings, 

are  given 

To  my  down-sunken  hours,  and  with  thee, 
Sweet  sister,  help  to  stem  the  ebbing  sea 
Of  weary  life.' 

Thus  ended  he,  and  both 
Sat  silent:  for  the  maid  was  very  loth     711 
To   answer;    feeling    well    that    breathed 

words 
Would  all  be  lost,  unheard,  and  vain  as 

swords 

Against  the  enchased  crocodile,  or  leaps 
Of   grasshoppers    against  the    sun.      She 

weeps, 
And  wonders;  struggles  to  devise   some 

blame; 

To  put  oa  such  a  look  as  would  say,  Shame 
On   this  poor  weakness !  but,   for  all   her 

strife, 
She  could  as  soon  have  crush'd  away  the 

life 
From  a  sick  dove.     At  length,  to  break  the 

pause,  720 

She  said  with  trembling  chance:   'Is  this 

the  cause  ? 
This  all  ?     Yet  it  is  strange,  and  sad,  alas  ! 


That  one  who  through  this  middle  earth 

should  pass 

Most  like  a  sojourning  demi-god,  and  leave 
His   name   upon    the    harp-string,   should 

achieve 

No  higher  bard  than  simple  maidenhood, 
Singing   alone,   and   fearfully,  —  how   the 

blood 
Left  his  young  cheek ;  and  how  he  used  to 

stray 
He  knew  not  where;   and  how  he  would 

say,  nay, 
If  any   said    't  was   love :   and   yet   't  was 

love;  73o 

What  could  it  be  but  love  ?     How  a  ring- 
dove 

Let  fall  a  sprig  of  yew-tree  in  his  path; 
And  how  he  died:  and  then,  that  love  doth 

scathe 
The  gentle   heart,  as  northern   blasts  do 

roses; 

And  then  the  ballad  of  his  sad  life  closes 
With  sighs,  and  an  alas  !  —  Endymion  ! 
Be  rather  in  the  trumpet's  mouth,  —  anon 
Among  the  winds  at  large  —  that  all  may 

hearken  ! 
Although,     before     the     crystal     heavens 

darken, 

I  watch  and  dote  upon  the  silver  lakes    740 
Pictured  in  western  cloudiness,  that  takes 
The  semblance  of  gold  rocks  and  bright 

gold  sands, 
Islands,    and    creeks,   and    amber-fretted 

strands 

With  horses  prancing  o'er  them,  palaces 
And  towers  of  amethyst,  —  would  I  so  tease 
My   pleasant   days,   because   I   could   not 

mount 

Into  those  regions  ?     The  Morphean  fount 
Of  that  fine  element  that  visions,  dreams, 
And  fitful  whims  of   sleep  are  made  of, 

streams 

Into  its  airy  channels  with  so  subtle,        750 
So  thin  a  breathing,  not  the  spider's  shuttle, 
Circled  a  million  times  within  the  space 
Of  a  swallow's  nest-door,  could  delay  a 

trace, 
A  tinting  of  its  quality:  how  light 


6o 


ENDYMION 


Must  dreams  themselves  be ;  seeing  they  're 

more  slight 
Than  the   mere   nothing    that   engenders 

them! 

Then  wherefore  sully  the  entrusted  gem 
Of  high  and  noble  life  with  thoughts  so 

sick? 
Why   pierce   high-fronted   honour   to   the 

quick 
For  nothing  but  a  dream  ? '     Hereat   the 

youth  76o 

Look'd  up:  a  conflicting  of  shame  and  ruth 
Was  in  his  plaited  brow:  yet  his  eyelids 
Widen'd  a  little,  as  when  Zephyr  bids 
A  little  breeze  to  creep  between  the  fans 
Of  careless  butterflies:  amid  his  pains 
He  seem'd  to  taste  a  drop  of  manna-dew, 
Full  palatable;  and  a  colour  grew 
Upon  his  cheek,  while  thus  he  lifef ul  spake. 

'  Peona  !  ever  have  I  long'd  to  slake 
My  thirst  for  the  world's  praises:  nothing 
base,  770 

No  merely  slumberous    phantasm,  could 

unlace 

The  stubborn  canvas  for  my  voyage  pre- 
pared — 
Though  now  'tis  tatter' d;  leaving  my  bark 

bared 

And  sullenly  drifting:  yet  my  higher  hope 
Is  of  too  wide,  too  rainbow-large  a  scope, 
To  fret  at  myriads  of  earthly  wrecks. 
Wherein  lies  happiness  ?     In  that  which 

becks 

Our  ready  minds  to  fellowship  divine, 
A  fellowship  with  essence;  till  we  shine, 
Full  alchemized,  and  free  of  space.     Be- 
hold 780 
The  clear  religion  of  heaven  !     Fold 
A  rose  leaf  round  thy  finger's  taperness, 
And  soothe  thy  lips:  hist,  when  the  airy 

stress 

Of  music's  kiss  impregnates  the  free  winds, 
And  with  a  sympathetic  touch  unbinds 
JEolian  magic  from  their  lucid  wombs: 
Then  old   songs   waken    from    enclouded 

tombs ; 
Old  ditties  sigh  above  their  father's  grave; 


Ghosts  of  melodious  prophesyings  rave 
Round    every  spot    where    trod  Apollo's 
foot;  79o 

Bronze  clarions  awake,  and  faintly  bruit, 
Where  long  ago  a  giant  battle  was; 
And,  from  the  turf,  a  lullaby  doth  pass 
In  every  place  where  infant  Orpheus  slept. 
Feel  we  these  things  ?  —  that  moment  have 

we  stept 

Into  a  sort  of  oneness,  and  our  state 
Is  like  a  floating  spirit's.     But  there  are 
Richer  entanglements,  enthralments  far 
More  self-destroying,  leading,  by  degrees, 
To  the  chief  intensity:  the  crown  of  these 
Is  made  of  love  and  friendship,  and  sits 
high  go  i 

Upon  the  forehead  of  humanity. 
All  its  more  ponderous  and  bulky  worth 
Is  friendship,  whence  there  ever  issues  forth 
A  steady  splendour;  but  at  the  tip-top, 
There  hangs  by  unseen  film,  an  orbed  drop 
Of  light,  and  that  is  love:  its  influence 
Thrown  in  our  eyes  genders  a  novel  sense, 
At  which  we  start  and  fret:  till  in  the  end, 
Melting  into  its  radiance,  we  blend,          810 
Mingle,  and  so  become  a  part  of  it,  — 
Nor  with  aught  else  can  our  souls  interknit 
So  wingedly:  when  we  combine  therewith, 
Life's  self  is  nourish'd  by  its  proper  pith, 
And  we  are  nurtured  like  a  pelican  brood. 
Aye,  so  delicious  is  the  unsating  food, 
That  men,  who  might  have  tower'd  in  the 

van 

Of  all  the  congregated  world,  to  fan 
And  winnow  from  the  coming  step  of  time 
All  chaff  of  custom,  wipe  away  all  slime  820 
Left  by  men-slugs  and  human  serpentry, 
Have  been  content  to  let  occasion  die, 
Whilst  they  did  sleep  in  love's  Elysium. 
And,  truly,  I  would  rather  be  struck  dumb, 
Than   speak   against   this   ardent  listless- 
ness: 

For  I  have  ever  thought  that  it  might  bless 
The  world  with  benefits  unknowingly; 
As  does  the  nightingale,  up-perched  high, 
And   cloister' d  among  cool  and   bunched 
leaves  —  829 

She  sings  but  to  her  love,  nor  e'er  conceives 


BOOK   FIRST 


61 


How  tiptoe  Night  holds  back  her  dark- 
gray  hood. 

Just  so  may  love,  although  't  is  understood 
The  mere  commingling  of  passionate  breath, 
Produce  more  than  our  searching  witness- 

eth: 
What  I  know  not:  but  who,  of  men,  can 

tell 
That  flowers  would  bloom,  or  that  green 

fruit  would  swell 
To  melting   pulp,   that  fish   would    have 

bright  mail, 
The  earth  its  dower  of   river,  wood,  and 

vale, 

The    meadows    runnels,    runnels    pebble- 
stones, 839 
The  seed  its  harvest,  or  the  lute  its  tones, 
Tones  ravishment,  or  ravishment  its  sweet, 
If  human  souls  did  never  kiss  and  greet  ? 

*  Now,  if  this  earthly  love  has  power  to 

make 

Men's  being  mortal,  immortal;  to  shake 
Ambition  from  their  memories,  and  brim 
Their  measure  of  content;   what   merest 

whim, 

Seems  all  this  poor  endeavour  after  fame, 
To   one,   who   keeps  within   his   steadfast 

aim 

A  love  immortal,  an  immortal  too. 
Look  not  so  wilder'd;  for  these  things  are 

true  850 

And  never  can  be  born  of  atomies 
That  buzz  about  our  slumbers,  like  brain- 
flies, 

Leaving  us  fancy-sick.     No,  no,  I  'm  sure, 
My  restless  spirit  never  could  endure 
To  brood  so  long  upon  one  luxury, 
Unless  it  did,  though  fearfully,  espy 
A  hope  beyond  the  shadow  of  a  dream. 
My  sayings  will  the  less  obscured  seem 
When  I  have  told  thee  how  my  waking 

sight 
Has  made  me  scruple  whether  that  same 

night  860 

Was  pass'd  in  dreaming.     Hearken,  sweet 

Peona  ! 
Beyond  the  matron-temple  of  Latona, 


Which  we  should  see  but  for  these  dark- 
ening boughs, 
Lies  a   deep  hollow,  from  whose  ragged 

brows 

Bushes  and  trees  do  lean  all  round  athwart, 
And  meet  so  nearly,  that  with  wings  out- 

raught, 

And  spreaded  tail,  a  vulture  could  not  glide 
Past  them,  but  he  must  brush  on  every 

side. 
Some  moulder'd  steps  lead  into  this  cool 

cell, 

Far  as  the  slabbed  margin  of  a  well,       870 
Whose  patient  level  peeps  its  crystal  eye 
Right  upward,  through  the  bushes,  to  the 

sky. 
Oft  have  I  brought  thee  flowers,  on  their 

stalks  set 

Like  vestal  primroses,  but  dark  velvet 
Edges  them  round,  and  they  have  golden 

pits: 
'T  was  there  I  got  them,  from  the  gaps  and 

slits 
In  a  mossy  stone,  that  sometimes  was  my 

seat, 
When   all  above  was   faint  with  mid-day 

heat. 
And  there  in  strife  no  burning  thoughts  to 

heed, 

I  'd  bubble  up  the  water  through  a  reed; 
So  reaching  back  to  boyhood:   make  me 

ships  881 

Of    moulted    feathers,   touchwood,    alder 

chips, 

With  leaves  stuck  in  them;  and  the  Nep- 
tune be 

Of  their  petty  ocean.     Oftener,  heavily, 
When  lovelorn  hours  had  left  me  less  a 

child, 

I  sat  contemplating  the  figures  wild 
Of  o'er-head   clouds   melting  the    mirror 

through. 

Upon  a  day,  while  thus  I  watch'd,  by  flew 
A  cloudy  Cupid,  with  his  bow  and  quiver; 
So  plainly  character'd,  no  breeze  would 

shiver  890 

The  happy  chance:  so  happy,  I  was  fain 
To  follow  it  upon  the  open  plain, 


62 


ENDYMION 


And,  therefore,  was  just  going;  when,  be- 
hold ! 

A  wonder,  fair  as  any  I  have  told  — 
The  same  bright  face  I  tasted  in  my  sleep, 
Smiling  in  the  clear  well.     My  heart  did 

leap 
Through  the  cool  depth.  —  It  moved  as  if 

to  flee  — 

I  started  up,  when  lo  !  refreshfully, 
There   came   upon  my  face,  in   plenteous 

showers, 

Dew-drops,  and  dewy  buds,  and  leaves,  and 

flowers,  900 

Wrapping  all  objects  from  my  smother'd 

sight, 

Bathing  my  spirit  in  a  new  delight. 
Aye,  such  a  breathless  honey-feel  of  bliss 
Alone  preserved  me  from  the  drear  abyss 
Of  death,  for  the  fair  form  had  gone  again. 
Pleasure  is  oft  a  visitant;  but  pain 
Clings  cruelly  to  us,  like  the  gnawing  sloth 
On  the  deer's  tender  haunches:  late,  and 

loth, 

'T  is  scared  away  by  slow  returning  plea- 
sure. 

How  sickening,  how  dark  the  dreadful  lei- 
sure 910 
Of  weary  days,  made  deeper  exquisite, 
By  a  foreknowledge  of  unslumbrous  night  ! 
Like  sorrow  came  upon  me,  heavier  still, 
Thau   when   I  wander'd  from   the   poppy 

hill: 
And   a  whole   age   of  lingering  moments 

crept 

Sluggishly  by,  ere  more  contentment  swept 
Away  at  once  the  deadly  yellow  spleen. 
Yes,  thrice  have  I  this  fair  enchantment 

seen; 

Once  more  been  tortured  with  renewed  life. 

When   last   the    wintry   gusts   gave    over 

strife  920 

With  the  conquering  sun  of   spring,  and 

left  the  skies 
Warm  and  serene,  but  yet  with  moisten'd 

eyes 

In  pity  of  the  shatter'd  infant  buds,  — 
That  time   thou  didst  adorn,  with  amber 
studs, 


My   hunting   cap,   because  I  laugh'd  and 

smiled, 

Chatted  with  thee,  and  many  days  exiled 
All  torment  from  my  breast; —  't  was  even 

then, 

Straying  about,  yet  coop'd  up  in  the  den 
Of  helpless  discontent,  —  hurling  my  lance 
From    place   to  place,   and   following    at 

chance,  930 

At  last,  by  hap,  through  some  young  trees 

it  struck, 

And,  plashing  among  bedded  pebbles,  stuck 
In  the  middle  of  a  brook,  —  whose  silver 

ramble 
Down  twenty  little  falls  through  reeds  and 

bramble, 

Tracing  along,  it  brought  me  to  a  cave, 
Whence  it  ran  brightly  forth,  and  white 

did  lave 
The    nether   sides   of    mossy   stones    and 

rock,  — 
'Mong  which  it  gurgled  blithe  adieus,  to 

mock 

Its  own  sweet  grief  at  parting.     Overhead, 
Hung  a  lush  screen  of  drooping  weeds,  and 

spread  940 

Thick,  as  to  curtain  up  some  wood-nymph's 

home. 

"  Ah  !  impious  mortal,  whither  do  I  roam  !  " 
Said  I,  low-voiced:  "  Ah,  whither  !  'T  is  the 

grot 

Of  Proserpine,  when  Hell,  obscure  and  hot, 
Doth  her   resign;   and  where   her  tender 

hands 

She  dabbles,  on  the  cool  and  sluicy  sands: 
Or  't  is  the  cell  of  Echo,  where  she  sits, 
And  babbles  thorough  silence,  till  her  wits 
Are  gone  in  tender  madness,  and  anon, 
Faints  into  sleep,  with  many  a  dying  tone 
Of  sadness.     O  that  she  would  take  my 

VOWS,  951 

And  breathe  them  sighingly  among  the 
boughs, 

To  sue  her  gentle  ears  for  whose  fair  head, 

Daily,  I  pluck  sweet  flowerets  from  their 
bed, 

And  weave  them  dyingly  —  send  honey- 
whispers 


BOOK   SECOND 


Round   every  leaf,   that   all   those   gentle 

lispers 
May  sigh  my  love  unto  her  pitying  ! 

0  charitable  Echo  !  hear,  and  sing 

This  ditty  to  her  !  —  tell  her  "  —  So  I  stay 'd 
My   foolish    tongue,    and    listening,    half 

afraid,  960 

Stood  stupefied  with  my  own  empty  folly, 
And  blushing  for  the  freaks  of  melancholy. 
Salt  tears  were  coming,  when  I  heard  my 

name 
Most  fondly  lipp'd,  and  then  these  accents 

came: 

"  Endymion  !  the  cave  is  secreter 
Than  the  isle  of  Delos.     Echo  hence  shall 

stir 
No  sighs  but  sigh-warm  kisses,  or  light 

noise 

Of  thy  combing  hand,  the  while  it  travel- 
ling cloys 
And    trembles    through    my   labyrinthine 

hair." 
At   that   oppress'd,    I   hurried    in.  —  Ah  ! 

where  970 

Are  those  swift  moments  ?     Whither  are 

they  fled  ? 

1  '11  smile  no  more,  Peona;  nor  will  wed 
Sorrow,  the  way  to  death;  but  patiently 
Bear  up  against  it:  so  farewell,  sad  sigh; 
And  come  instead  demurest  meditation, 
To  occupy  me  wholly,  and  to  fashion 

My  pilgrimage  for  the  world's  dusky  brink. 
No  more  will  I  count  over,  link  by  link, 
My  chain  of  grief:  no  longer  strive  to  find 
A  half-forgetfulness  in  mountain  wind    980 
Blustering  about  my  ears:  aye,  thou  shalt 

see, 

Dearest  of  sisters,  what  my  life  shall  be; 
What  a  calm  round  of  hours  shall  make 

my  days. 

There  is  a  paly  flame  of  hope  that  plays 
Where'er  I  look:   but  yet,  I'll  say  'tis 

naught  — 

And  here  I  bid  it  die.     Have  not  I  caught, 
Already,  a  more  healthy  countenance  ? 
By  this  the  sun  is  setting;  we  may  chance 
Meet  some  of  our  near-dwellers  with  my 

car.' 


This  said,  he  rose,  faint-smiling  like  a 
star  990 

Through  autumn  mists,  and  took  Peona's 
hand: 

They  stept  into  the  boat,  and  launch'd  from 
laud. 


BOOK   II 

O  SOVEREIGN  power  of  love !  O  grief  !  O 

balm! 
All  records,  saving  thine,  come  cool,  and 

calm, 
And  shadowy,  through  the  mist  of  passed 

years : 
For    others,    good    or    bad,    hatred    and 

tears 

Have  become  indolent;  but  touching  thine, 
One   sigh   doth   echo,  one  poor   sob  doth 

pine, 
One   kiss   brings   honey-dew  from  buried 

days. 
The  woes  of  Troy,  towers  smothering  o'er 

their  blaze, 
Stiff -holden  shields,  far -piercing  spears, 

keen  blades, 
Struggling,  and   blood,   and   shrieks  —  all 

dimly  fades  10 

Into  some  backward  corner  of  the  brain; 
Yet,  in  our  very  souls,  we  feel  amain 
The  close  of  Troilus  and  Cressid  sweet. 
Hence,    pageant    history !    hence,    gilded 

cheat ! 

Swart  planet  in  the  universe  of  deeds  ! 
Wide   sea,   that   one   continuous   murmur 

breeds 

Along  the  pebbled  shore  of  memory  ! 
Many    old    rotten  -  tiniber'd    boats    there 

be 

Upon  thy  vaporous  bosom,  magnified 
To  goodly  vessels;  many  a  sail  of  pride,  20 
And  golden-keel'd,  is  left  unlaunch'd  and 

dry. 
But  wherefore  this  ?     What  care,  though 

owl  did  fly 

About  the  great  Athenian  admiral's  mast  ? 
What  care,  though  striding  Alexander  past 


ENDYMION 


The  Indus  with  his  Macedonian  numbers  ? 
Though    old    Ulysses    tortured   from   his 

slumbers 
The  glutted  Cyclops,  what  care  ?  —  Juliet 

leaning 
Amid    her   window -flowers,  —  sighing, — 

weaning 

Tenderly  her  fancy  from  its  maiden  snow, 
Doth   more   avail   than   these:    the   silver 

flow  3o 

Of  Hero's  tears,  the  swoon  of  Imogen, 
Fair  Pastorella  in  the  bandit's  den, 
Are  things  to  brood  on  with  more  ardency 
Than  the  death-day  of  empires.     Fearfully 
Must  such  conviction  come  upon  his  head, 
Who,  thus   far,  discontent,   has  dared  to 

tread, 

Without  one  muse's  smile,  or  kind  behest, 
The  path  of  love  and  poesy.     But  rest, 
In  chafing  restlessness,  is  yet  more  drear 
Than  to  be  crush'd,  in  striving  to  uprear    40 
Love's  standard  on  the  battlements  of  song. 
So  once  more  days  and  nights  aid  me  along, 
Like  legion'd  soldiers. 

Brain-sick  shepherd-prince, 
What  promise  hast  thou  faithful  guarded 

since 

The  day  of  sacrifice  ?     Or,  have  new  sor- 
rows 
Come  with  the  constant  dawn   upon   thy 

morrows  ? 

Alas  !  't  is  his  old  grief.     For  many  days, 
Has  he  been  wandering  in  uncertain  ways: 
Through  wilderness,  and  woods  of  mossed 


Counting   his   woe-worn   minutes,   by   the 

strokes  50 

Of  the   lone  wood-cutter  ;    and   listening 

still, 

Hour  after  hour,  to  each  lush-leaved  rill. 
Now  he  is  sitting  by  a  shady  spring, 
And  elbow-deep  with  feverous  fingering 
Stems  the  upbursting  cold:  a  wild  rose  tree 
Pavilions  him  in  bloom,  and  he  doth  see 
A  bud  which  snares  his  fancy:  lo  !  but  now 
He  plucks  it,  dips  its  stalk  in  the  water: 
how! 


It  swells,  it  buds,  it  flowers  beneath  his 

sight; 

And,  in  the  middle,  there  is  softly  pight   60 
A  golden  butterfly;  upon  whose  wings 
There  must  be  surely  character'd  strange 

things, 
For  with  wide  eye  he  wonders,  and  smiles 

oft. 

Lightly  this  little  herald  flew  aloft, 
Follow'd     by    glad     Endymion's    clasped 

hands: 
Onward   it   flies.     From   languor's   sullen 

bands 

His  limbs  are  loosed,  and  eager,  on  he  hies 
Dazzled  to  trace  it  in  the  sunny  skies. 
It  seem'd  he  flew,  the  way  so  easy  was; 
And  like  a  new-born  spirit  did  he  pass      70 
Through  the  green  evening  quiet  in  the  sun, 
O'er  many  a  heath,  through  many  a  wood- 
land dun, 

Through  buried  paths,  where  sleepy  twi- 
light dreams 

The  summer  time  away.     One  track  un- 
seams 

A  wooded  cleft,  and,  far  away,  the  blue 
Of  ocean  fades  upon  him;  then,  anew, 
He  sinks  adown  a  solitary  glen, 
Where  there  was  never  sound  of  mortal 

men, 

Saving,  perhaps,  some  snow-light  cadences 
Melting  to  silence,  when  upon  the  breeze  80 
Some  holy  bark  let  forth  an  anthem  sweet, 
To  cheer  itself  to  Delphi.     Still  his  feet 
Went   swift   beneath   the    merry  -  winged 

guide, 

Until  it  reach'd  a  splashing  fountain's  side 
That,   near   a   cavern's    mouth,    for    ever 

pour'd 

Unto  the  temperate  air:  then  high  it  soar'd, 
And,  downward,  suddenly  began  to  dip, 
As  if,  athirst  with  so  much  toil,  't  would 

sip 
The   crystal   spout-head:   so   it   did,   with 

touch 

Most  delicate,  as  though  afraid  to  smutch,  90 
Even  with  mealy  gold,  the  waters  clear. 
But,  at  that  very  touch,  to  disappear 


BOOK   SECOND 


So  fairy-quick,  was  strange  !  Bewildered, 
Endyinion  sought  around,  and  shook  each 

bed 

Of  covert  flowers  in  vain;  and  then  he  flung 
Himself  along  the  grass.  What  gentle 

tongue, 

What  whisperer,  disturb'd  his  gloomy  rest  ? 
It  was  a  nymph  uprisen  to  the  breast 
In  the  fountain's  pebbly  margin,  and  she 

stood 
'Mong    lilies,   like    the    youngest    of    the 

brood.  ioo 

To  him  her  dripping  hand  she  softly  kist, 
And  anxiously  began  to  plait  and  twist 
Her    ringlets   round   her   fingers,   saying: 

'  Youth  ! 
Too  long,  alas,  hast  thou  starved  on  the 

ruth, 

The  bitterness  of  love:  too  long  indeed, 
Seeing  thou  art  so  gentle.     Could  I  weed 
Thy  soul  of  care,  by  heavens,  I  would  offer 
All  the  bright  riches  of  my  crystal  coffer 
To  Amphitrite;  all  my  clear-eyed  fish, 
Golden,  or  rainbow-sided,  or  purplish,     no 
Vermilion  -  tail'd,    or    finn'd    with    silvery 

gauze ; 

Yea,  or  my  veined  pebble-floor,  that  draws 
A  virgin  light  to  the  deep;  my  grotto-sands, 
Tawny  and  gold,  oozed  slowly  from  far 

lands 
By  my  diligent   springs:   my   level  lilies, 

shells, 

My  charming  rod,  my  potent  river  spells; 
Yes,  every  thing,  even  to  the  pearly  cup 
Meander  gave  me,  —  for  I  bubbled  up 
To  fainting  creatures  in  a  desert  wild. 
But  woe  is  me,  I  am  but  as  a  child  120 

To  gladden  thee;  and  all  I  dare  to  say, 
Is,  that  I  pity  thee;  that  on  this  day 
I  've  been  thy  guide ;  that  thou  must  wander 

far 

In  other  regions,  past  the  scanty  bar 
To  mortal  steps,  before  thou  canst  be  ta'en 
From  every  wasting  sigh,  from  every  pain, 
Into  the  gentle  bosom  of  thy  love. 
Why  it  is  thus,  one  knows  in  heaven  above : 
But,  a  poor  Naiad,  I  guess  not.     Farewell ! 
I  have  a  ditty  for  my  hollow  cell.'  130 


Hereat   she  vanish'd   from   Endymion's 

gaze, 

Who  brooded  o'er  the  water  in  amaze: 
The  dashing  fount  pour'd  on,  and  where 

its  pool 

Lay,  half  asleep,  in  grass  and  rushes  cool, 
Quick  waterflies  and  gnats  were  sporting 

still, 

And  fish  were  dimpling,  as  if  good  nor  ill 
Had  fallen  out  that  hour.     The  wanderer, 
Holding  his  forehead,  to  keep  off  the  burr 
Of  smothering  fancies,  patiently  sat  down; 
And,  while  beneath   the  evening's  sleepy 
frown  140 

Glowworms   began   to    trim    their    starry 

lamps, 

Thus  breathed  he  to  himself:  '  Whoso  en- 
camps 
To  take  a  fancied  city  of  delight, 

0  what  a  wretch  is  he  !  and  when  't  is  his, 
After  long  toil  and  travelling,  to  miss 
The  kernel  of  his  hopes,  how  more  than 

vile: 
Yet,  for  him  there  's  refreshment  even  in 

toil: 

Another  city  doth  he  set  about, 
Free  from   the   smallest  pebble -bead  of 

doubt  149 

That  he  will  seize  on  trickling  honey-combs: 
Alas,  he  finds  them  dry;  and  then  he  foams, 
And  onward  to  another  city  speeds. 
But  this  is  human  life:  the  war,  the  deeds, 
The  disappointment,  the  anxiety, 
Imagination's  struggles,  far  and  nigh, 
All  human;  bearing  in  themselves  this  good, 
That  they  are  still  the  air,  the  subtle  food, 
To  make  us  feel  existence,  and  to  show 
How  quiet  death  is.     Where  soil  is,  men 

grow,  159 

Whether  to  weeds  or  flowers;  but  for  me, 
There  is  no  depth  to  strike  in:  I  can  see 
Naught  earthly  worth  my  compassing;  so 

stand 

Upon  a  misty,  jutting  head  of  land  — 
Alone  ?     No,  no ;  and  by  the  Orphean  lute, 
When  mad  Eurydice  is  listening  to  't, 

1  'd  rather  stand  upon  this  misty  peak, 
With  not  a  thing  to  sigh  for,  or  to  seek, 


66 


ENDYMION 


But  the  soft  shadow  of  my  thrice  seen  love, 
Than  be  —  I  care  not  what.     O    meekest 

dove 
Of  heaven  !     O  Cynthia,  ten-times  bright 

and  fair  !  170 

From  thy  blue  throne,  now  filling  all  the 

air, 
Glance  but  one   little   beam   of   temper'd 

light 

Into  my  bosom,  that  the  dreadful  might 
And  tyranny  of  love  be  somewhat  scared  ! 
Yet  do  not  so,  sweet  queen  ;  one  torment 


Would  give  a  pang  to  jealous  misery, 
Worse  than  the  torment's  self:  but  rather 

tie 
Large  wings  upon  my  shoulders,  and  point 

out 

My  love's  far  dwelling.     Though  the  play- 
ful rout  179 
Of  Cupids  shun  thee,  too  divine  art  thou, 
Too  keen  in  beauty,  for  thy  silver  prow 
Not  to  have  dipp'd  in  love's  most  gentle 

stream. 

O  be  propitious,  nor  severely  deem 
My  madness  impious;  for,  by  all  the  stars 
That  tend  thy  bidding,  I  do  think  the  bars 
That  kept  my  spirit  in  are  burst  —  that  I 
Am  sailing  with  thee   through   the  dizzy 

sky! 
How  beautiful  thou  art !     The  world  how 

deep ! 

How  tremulous-dazzlingly  the  wheels  sweep 
Around  their  axle  !     Then  these  gleaming 

reins,  190 

How  lithe  !     When  this  thy  chariot  attains 
Its  airy  goal,  haply  some  bower  veils 
Those  twilight  eyes  ?     Those  eyes  !  —  my 

spirit  fails  — 
Dear  goddess,  help  !  or  the  wide   gaping 

air 
Will   gulf   me  —  help  ! '  —    At  this,  with 

madden' d  stare, 
And  lifted  hands,  and  trembling  lips,  he 

stood ; 
Like   old   Deucalion   mountain'd   o'er  the 

flood, 
Or  blind  Orion  hungry  for  the  morn. 


And,  but  from  the  deep  cavern  there  was 

borne 
A  voice,  he  had   been   froze  to  senseless 

stone ;  200 

Nor  sigh  of  his,  nor  plaint,  nor  passion'd 

moan 
Had  more   been  heard.     Thus   swell'd  it 

forth:  'Descend, 
Young  mountaineer  !  descend  where  alleys 

bend 

Into  the  sparry  hollows  of  the  world ! 
Oft  hast  thou  seen  bolts  of   the  thunder 

hurl'd 
As  from  thy  threshold;   day  by  day  hast 

been 

A  little  lower  than  the  chilly  sheen 
Of  icy  pinnacles,  and  dipp'dst  thine  arms 
Into  the  deadening  ether  that  still  charms 
Their  marble   being :   now,  as   deep   pro- 
found 
As  those  are  high,  descend  !     He  ne'er  is 

crown'd  2n 

With  immortality,  who  fears  to  follow 
Where   airy  voices  lead:   so  through   the 

hollow, 
The  silent  mysteries  of  earth,  descend  ! ' 

He  heard  but  the  last  words,  nor  could 

contend 

One  moment  in  reflection:  for  he  fled 
Into  the  fearful  deep,  to  hide  his  head 
From  the  clear  moon,  the  trees,  and  com- 
ing madness. 

'Twas   far  too  strange,  and  wonderful 

for  sadness; 

Sharpening,  by  degrees,  his  appetite         220 
To  dive  into  the  deepest.     Dark,  nor  light, 
The  region;  nor  bright,  nor  sombre  wholly, 
But  mingled  up;  a  gleaming  melancholy; 
A  dusky  empire  and  its  diadems; 
One  faint  eternal  eventide  of  gems. 
Aye,  millions  sparkled  on  a  vein  of  gold, 
Along  whose  track  the  prince  quick  foot- 
steps told, 

With  all  its  lines  abrupt  and  angular: 
Out-shooting  sometimes,  like  a  meteor-star, 
Through  a  vast  antre ;  then  the  metal  woof, 


BOOK   SECOND 


67 


Like  Vulcan's  rainbow,  with  some  mon- 
strous roof  231 
Curves  hugely:  now,  far  in  the  deep  abyss, 
It  seems  an  angry  lightning,  and  doth  hiss 
Fancy  into  belief:  anon  it  leads 
Through  winding  passages,  where  sameness 

breeds 

Vexing  conceptions  of  some  sudden  change ; 
Whether  to  silver  grots,  or  giant  range 
Of  sapphire  columns,  or  fantastic  bridge 
Athwart  a  flood  of  crystal.     On  a  ridge 
Now  fareth  he,  that  o'er  the  vast  beneath 
Towers  like  an  ocean-cliff,  and  whence  he 
seeth  241 

A  hundred  waterfalls,  whose  voices  come 
But  as  the  murmuring  surge.     Chilly  and 

numb 

His  bosom  grew,  when  first  he,  far  away, 
Descried  an  orbed  diamond,  set  to  fray 
Old  Darkness  from  his  throne:  'twas  like 

the  sun 

Uprisen  o'er  chaos :  and  with  such  a  stun 
Came  the  amazement,  that,  absorb'd  in  it, 
He  saw  not  fiercer  wonders  —  past  the 

wit 

Of  any  spirit  to  tell,  but  one  of  those      250 
Who,  when  this  planet's  sphering  time  doth 

close 

Will  be  its  high  remembrancers :  who  they  ? 
The  mighty  ones  who  have  made  eternal 

day 

For  Greece  and  England.     While  astonish- 
ment 
With  deep-drawn  sighs  was  quieting,   he 

went 

Into  a  marble  gallery,  passing  through 
A  mimic  temple,  so  complete  and  true 
In  sacred  custom,  that  he  well  nigh  fear'd 
To  search  it  inwards;   whence  far  off  ap- 

pear'd, 

Through  a  long  pillar'd  vista,  a  fair  shrine, 
And,  just  beyond,  on  light  tiptoe  divine,  261 
A  quiver'd  Dian.     Stepping  awfully, 
The    youth    approach'd;    oft    turning    his 

veil'd  eye 

Down  sidelong  aisles,  and  into  niches  old: 
And  when,  more  near  against  the  marble 
cold 


He  had  touch'd  his  forehead,  he  began  to 

thread 

All  courts  and  passages,  where  silence  dead, 
Roused  by  his  whispering  footsteps,  mur- 

mur'd  faint: 

And  long  he  traversed  to  and  fro,  to  ac- 
quaint 

Himself  with  every  mystery,  and  awe;    270 
Till,  weary,  he  sat  down  before  the  maw 
Of  a  wide  outlet,  fathomless  and  dim, 
To  wild  uncertainty  and  shadows  grim. 
There,  when  new  wonders  ceased  to  float 

before, 
And  thoughts  of  self  came  on,  how  crude 

and  sore 

The  journey  homeward  to  habitual  self  ! 
A  mad  pursuing  of  the  fog-born  elf, 
Whose  flitting  lantern,  through  rude  nettle- 
brier, 

Cheats  us  into  a  swamp,  into  a  fire, 
Into  the  bosom  of  a  hated  thing.  280 

What  misery  most  drowningly  doth  sing 
In  lone  Endymion's  ear,  now  he  has  raught 
The  goal  of  consciousness?  Ah,  'tis  the 

thought, 

The  deadly  feel  of  solitude:  for  lo ! 
He  cannot  see  the  heavens,  nor  the  flow 
Of  rivers,  nor  hill-flowers  running  wild 
In  pink  and  purple  chequer,  nor,  up-piled, 
The  cloudy  rack  slow  journeying  in  the 

west, 

Like  herded  elephants;  nor  felt,  nor  prest 
Cool  grass,  nor  tasted  the  fresh  slumberous 

air;  290 

But  far  from  such  companionship  to  wear 
An  unknown  time,  surcharged  with  grief, 

away, 

Was  now  his  lot.    And  must  he  patient  stay, 
Tracing  fantastic  figures  with  his  spear  ? 
*  No  ! '  exclaim'd  he,  '  why  should  I  tarry 

here  ?  ' 

No  !  loudly  echoed  times  innumerable. 
At  which  he  straightway  started,  and  'gan 

tell 

His  paces  back  into  the  temple's  chief; 
Warming  and  glowing  strong  in  the  belief 
Of  help  from  Dian:  so  that  when  again  3<x> 


68 


ENDYMION 


He  caught  her  airy  form,  thus  did  he  plain, 
Moving  more  near  the  while:  '  O  Haunter 

chaste 
Of    river   sides,   and   woods,   and   heathy 

waste, 

Where  with  thy  silver  bow  and  arrows  keen 
Art  thou  now  forested?  O  woodland 

Queen, 
What  smoothest  air  thy  smoother  forehead 

woos? 

Where  dost  thou  listen  to  the  wide  halloos 
Of  thy  disparted  nymphs  ?  Through  what 

dark  tree 

Glimmers  thy  crescent  ?  Wheresoe'er  it  be, 
"Tis  in  the  breath  of  heaven:  thou  dost 

taste  3 10 

Freedom   as   none  can  taste  it,  nor   dost 

waste 

Thy  loveliness  in  dismal  elements; 
But,  finding  in  our  green  earth  sweet  con- 
tents, 

There  livest  blissfully.     Ah,  if  to  thee 
It  feels  Elysian,  how  rich  to  me, 
An  exiled  mortal,  sounds  its  pleasant  name  ! 
Within   my  breast   there  lives  a  choking 

flame  — 

O  let  me  cool  't  the  zephyr-boughs  among  ! 
A  homeward  fever  parches  up  my  tongue  — 
O  let  me  slake  it  at  the  running  springs  !  320 
Upon  my  ear  a  noisy  nothing  rings  — 
O  let  me  once  more  hear  the  linnet's  note  ! 
Before  mine  eyes  thick  films  and  shadows 

float  — 
O  let  me  'noint  them  with  the  heaven's 

light ! 
Dost  thou  now  lave  thy  feet  and  ankles 

white  ? 
O  think  how  sweet  to  me  the  freshening 

sluice  ! 

Dost  thou  now  please  thy  thirst  with  berry- 
juice  ? 

O  think  how  this  dry  palate  would  rejoice  ! 
If  in  soft  slumber  thou  dost  hear  my  voice, 
O  think  how  I  should  love  a  bed  of 

flowers  !  —  330 

Young   goddess !    let   me   see   my   native 

bowers ! 
Deliver  me  from  this  rapacious  deep  ! ' 


Thus  ending  loudly,  as  he  would  o'er- 

leap 

His  destiny,  alert  he  stood:  but  when 
Obstinate  silence  came  heavily  again, 
Feeling  about  for  its  old  couch  of  space 
And  airy  cradle,  lowly  bow'd  his  face, 
Desponding,  o'er  the  marble   floor's   cold 

thrill. 
But  'twas  not  long;  for,  sweeter  than  the 

rill 

To  its  old  channel,  or  a  swollen  tide  34o 
To  margin  sallows,  were  the  leaves  he  spied, 
And  flowers,  and  wreaths,  and  ready  myrtle 

crowns 
Upheaping  through  the  slab:  refreshment 

drowns 

Itself,  and  strives  its  own  delights  to  hide  — 
Nor  in  one  spot  alone ;  the  floral  pride 
In  a  long  whispering  birth  enchanted  grew 
Before  his  footsteps;  as  when  heaved  anew 
Old  ocean  rolls  a  lengthened  wave  to  the 

shore, 
Down  whose   green   back   the  short-lived 

foam,  all  hoar, 

Bursts    gradual,   with    a   wayward    indo- 
lence. 350 

Increasing  still   in  heart,  and  pleasant 

sense, 

Upon  his  fairy  journey  on  he  hastes; 
So  anxious  for  the  end,  he  scarcely  wastes 
One   moment   with    his   hand   among  the 

sweets: 
Onward   he   goes  —  he   stops  —  his  bosom 

beats 

As  plainly  in  his  ear,  as  the  faint  charm 
Of  which  the  throbs  were  born.     This  still 

alarm, 

This   sleepy  music,  forced  him  walk   tip- 
toe: 
For  it  came  more  softly  than  the  east  could 

blow 

Arion's  magic  to  the  Atlantic  isles;  360 
Or  than  the  west,  made  jealous  by  the 

smiles 
Of  throned  Apollo,  could  breathe  back  the 

lyre 
To  seas  Ionian  and  Tyrian. 


BOOK   SECOND 


69 


O  did  he  ever  live,  that  lonely  man, 
Who  loved  —  and  music  slew  not?     'Tis 

the  pest 

Of  love,  that  fairest  joys  give  most  unrest; 
That  things  of  delicate  and  tenderest  worth 
Are  swallow'd  all,  and  made  a  seared 

dearth, 

By  one  consuming  flame:  it  doth  immerse 
And  suffocate  true  blessings  in  a  curse.  370 
Half-happy,  by  comparison  of  bliss, 
Is  miserable.     'T  was  even  so  with  this 
Dew-dropping    melody,    in    the     Carian's 

ear  ; 
First  heaven,  then  hell,  and  then  forgotten 

clear, 
Vanish'd  in  elemental  passion. 

And  down  some  swart  abysm   he   had 

gone, 

Had  not  a  heavenly  guide  benignant  led 
To   where  thick  myrtle  branches,  'gainst 

his  head 

Brushing,  awakened :  then  the  sounds  again 
Went    noiseless    as    a    passing     noontide 
rain  380 

Over  a  bower,  where  little  space  he  stood; 
For  as  the  sunset  peeps  into  a  wood, 
So  saw  he  panting  light,  and  towards  it 

went 

Through  winding  alleys;  and  lo,  wonder- 
ment ! 

Upon  soft  verdure  saw,  one  here,  one  there, 
Cupids  a-slumbering  on  their  pinions  fair. 

After  a  thousand  mazes  overgone, 
At  last,  with  sudden  step,  he  came  upon 
A  chamber,  myrtle-walPd,  embower'd  high, 
Full  of  light,  incense,  tender  minstrelsy,  390 
And  more  of  beautiful  and  strange  beside: 
For  on  a  silken  couch  of  rosy  pride, 
In  midst  of  all,  there  lay  a  sleeping  youth 
Of  fondest  beauty;  fonder,  in  fair  sooth, 
Than  sighs  could  fathom,  or  contentment 

reach: 

And  coverlids  gold-tinted  like  the  peach, 
Or  ripe  October's  faded  marigolds, 
Fell  sleek  about  him  in  a  thousand  folds  — 
Not  hiding  up  an  Apollonian  curve 


Of   neck   and   shoulder,   nor    the    tenting 

swerve  400 

Of  knee  from  knee,  nor  ankles  pointing 

light; 

But  rather,  giving  them  to  the  fill'd  sight 
Officiously.     Sideway  his  face  reposed 
On  one  white  arm,  and  tenderly  unclosed, 
By   tenderest    pressure,   a    faint    damask 

mouth 
To   slumbery  pout;   just   as   the   morning 

south 
Disparts   a  dew-lipp'd   rose.      Above   his 

head, 
Four  lily  stalks  did  their  white  honours 

wed 

To  make  a  coronal;  and  round  him  grew 
All   tendrils   green,  of   every   bloom   and 

hue,  410 

Together  intertwined  and  trammelPd  fresh: 
The  vine  of  glossy  sprout;  the  ivy  mesh, 
Shading  its  Ethiop  berries ;  and  woodbine, 
Of  velvet-leaves  and  bugle-blooms  divine ; 
Convolvulus  in  streaked  vases  flush; 
The    creeper,   mellowing  for  an   autumn 

blush; 

And  virgin's  bower,  trailing  airily; 
With  others  of  the  sisterhood.     Hard  by, 
Stood  serene  Cupids  watching  silently. 
One,    kneeling     to    a    lyre,    touch'd    the 

strings,  420 

Muffling  to  death  the  pathos  with  his  wings; 
And,  ever  and  anon,  uprose  to  look 
At  the  youth's  slumber;  while  another  took 
A  willow  bough,  distilling  odorous  dew, 
And  shook  it  on  his  hair;  another  flew 
In  through  the  woven  roof,  and  fluttering- 

wise 
Rain'd  violets  upon  his  sleeping  eyes. 

At  these  enchantments,  and  yet  many 

more, 
The  breathless  Latmian  wonder'd  o'er  and 

o'er; 

Until  impatient  in  embarrassment,  430 

He  forthright  pass'd,  and  lightly  treading 

went 
To  that  same  feather'd  lyrist,  who  straight* 

way, 


ENDYMION 


Smiling,   thus   whisper'd:    'Though   from 

upper  day 
Thou   art   a  wanderer,  and   thy  presence 

here 

Might  seem  unholy,  be  of  happy  cheer  ! 
For  't  is  the  nicest  touch  of  human  honour, 
When  some  ethereal   and   high-favouring 

donor 

Presents  immortal  bowers  to  mortal  sense ; 
As  now  't  is  done  to  thee,  Endymion.    Hence 
Was  I  in  no  wise  startled.     So  recline     440 
Upon  these  living  flowers.     Here  is  wine, 
Alive  with  sparkles  —  never,  I  aver, 
Since  Ariadne  was  a  vintager, 
So  cool  a  purple:  taste  these  juicy  pears, 
Sent  me  by  sad  Vertumnus,  when  his  fears 
Were  high  about  Pomona:  here  is  cream, 
Deepening  to  richness  from  a  snowy  gleam ; 
Sweeter  than  that  nurse  Amalthea  skimm'd 
For  the  boy  Jupiter:  and  here,  undimm'd 
By  any  touch,  a  bunch  of  blooming  plums 
Ready  to  melt  between  an  infant's  gums: 
And   here   is   manna  pick'd   from  Syrian 

trees,  452 

In  starlight,  by  the  three  Hesperides. 
Feast  on,  and  meanwhile  I  will  let  thee 

know 
Of  all  these  things  around  us.'     He  did 

so, 

Still  brooding  o'er  the  cadence  of  his  lyre; 
And  thus :  '  I  need  not  any  hearing  tire 
By  telling  how  the  sea-born  goddess  pined 
For  a  mortal  youth,  and  how  she  strove  to 

bind 

Him  all  in  all  unto  her  doating  self.         460 
Who  would  not  be  so  prison'd  ?  but,  fond 

elf, 

He  was  content  to  let  her  amorous  plea 
Faint  through  his  careless  arms;  content  to 

see 

An  unseized  heaven  dying  at  his  feet; 
Content,  O  fool !  to  make  a  cold  retreat, 
When  on  the  pleasant  grass  such  love,  love- 
lorn, 

Lay  sorrowing;  when  every  tear  was  born 
Of  diverse  passion;  when  her  lips  and  eyes 
Were  closed  in  sullen  moisture,  and  quick 


Came  vex'd  and  pettish  through  her  nos- 
trils small.  47o 

Hush  !  no  exclaim  —  yet,  justly  might'st 
thou  call 

Curses  upon  his  head.  —  I  was  half  glad, 

But  my  poor  mistress  went  distract  and 
mad, 

When  the  boar  tusk'd  him :  so  away  she  flew 

To  Jove's  high  throne,  and  by  her  plainings 
drew 

Immortal  tear-drops  down  the  thunderer's 
beard; 

Whereon,  it  was  decreed  he  should  be 
rear'd 

Each  summer-time  to  life.     Lo  !  this  is  he, 

That  same  Adonis,  safe  in  the  privacy 

Of  this  still  region  all  his  winter-sleep.    480 

Aye,  sleep;  for  when  our  love-sick  queen 
did  weep 

Over  his  waned  corse,  the  tremulous 
shower 

Heal'd  up  the  wound,  and,  with  a  balmy 
power, 

Medicined  death  to  a  lengthened  drowsi- 
ness : 

The  which  she  fills  with  visions,  and  doth 
dress 

In  all  this  quiet  luxury;  and  hath  set 

Us  young  immortals,  without  any  let, 

To  watch  his  slumber  through.  'T  is  well 
nigh  pass'd, 

Even  to  a  moment's  filling  up,  and  fast 

She  scuds  with  summer  breezes,  to  pant 
through  490 

The  first  long  kiss,  warm  firstling,  to  renew 

Embower'd  sports  in  Cytherea's  isle. 

Look!  how  those  winged  listeners  all  this 
while 

Stand  anxious :  see  !  behold  ! '  —  This  cla- 
mant word 

Broke  through  the  careful  silence;  for 
they  heard 

A  rustling  noise  of  leaves,  and  out  there 
flutter'd 

Pigeons  and  doves:  Adonis  something 
mutter'd, 

The  while  one  hand,  that  erst  upon  his 
thigh 


BOOK   SECOND 


71 


Lay  dormant,  moved  convulsed  and  gradu- 
ally 
Up  to  his  forehead.     Then  there  was  a 

hum  5°o 

Of  sudden  voices,  echoing,  '  Come  !  come  ! 
Arise  !  awake  !     Clear  summer  has  forth 

walk'd 

Unto  the  clover-sward,  and  she  has  talk'd 
Full  soothingly  to  every  nested  finch: 
Rise,  Cupids  !  or  we  '11  give  the  bluebell 

pinch 
To  your  dimpled  arms.     Once  more  sweet 

life  begin ! ' 

At  this,  from  every  side  they  hurried  in, 
Rubbing  their  sleepy  eyes  with  lazy  wrists, 
And  doubling  overhead  their  little  fists 
In  backward  yawns.     But  all  were  soon 

alive:  510 

For,  as  delicious  wine  doth,  sparkling,  dive 
In  nectar'd  clouds  and  curls  through  water 

fair, 

So  from  the  arbour  roof  down  swelPd  an  air 
Odorous  and  enlivening;  making  all 
To  laugh,  and  play,  and  sing,  and  loudly  call 
For    their    sweet    queen:    when    lo !    the 

wreathed  green 

Disparted,  and  far  upward  could  be  seen 
Blue  heaven,  and  a  silver  car,  air-borne, 
Whose  silent  wheels,  fresh  wet  from  clouds 

of  morn, 
Spun  off  a  drizzling  dew,  —  which  falling 

chill  520 

On  soft  Adonis'  shoulders,  made  him  still 
Nestle  and  turn  uneasily  about. 
Soon  were  the  white  doves  plain,  with  necks 

stretch'd  out, 

And  silken  traces  lighten'd  in  descent; 
And  soon,  returning   from  love's   banish- 
ment, 
Queen    Venus    leaning    downward    open- 

arm'd: 
Her    shadow   fell    upon    his    breast,  and 

charm'd 

A  tumult  to  his  heart,  and  a  new  life 
Into  his  eyes.     Ah,  miserable  strife, 
But  for  her  comforting  !  unhappy  sight,   530 
But  meeting  her  blue  orbs  !     Who,   who 

can  write 


Of  these  first  minutes  ?     The  unchariest 

muse 
To  embracements  warm  as  theirs  makes 

coy  excuse. 

O  it  has  ruffled  every  spirit  there, 
Saving  Love's  self,  who  stands  superb  to 

share 

The  general  gladness:  awfully  he  stands; 
A  sovereign  quell  is  in  his  waving  hands; 
No  sight  can  bear  the  lightning  of  his  bow; 
His  quiver  is  mysterious,  none  can  know 
What  themselves  think  of  it;  from  forth 

his  eyes  540 

There  darts  strange  light  of  varied  hues 

and  dyes: 

A  scowl  is  sometimes  on  his  brow,  but  who 
Look  full  upon  it  feel  anon  the  blue 
Of  his  fair  eyes  run  liquid  through  their 

souls. 

Endymion  feels  it,  and  no  more  controls 
The  burning  prayer  within  him;  so,  bent 

low, 

He  had  begun  a  plaining  of  his  woe. 
But  Venus,  bending  forward,  said:  'My 

child, 

Favour  this  gentle  youth;  his  days  are  wild 
With  love  —  he  —  but  alas  !  too  well  I  see 
Thou  know'st  the  deepness  of  his  misery. 
Ah,  smile  not  so,  my  son:  I  tell  thee  true, 
That  when  through  heavy  hours  I  used  to 

rue  553 

The  endless  sleep  of  this  new-born  Adon', 
This  stranger  ay  I  pitied.     For  upon 
A  dreary  morning  once  I  fled  away 
Into  the  breezy  clouds,  to  weep  and  pray 
For  this  my  love:  for  vexing  Mars  had 

teased 
Me  even  to  tears:   thence,  when  a  little 


Down-looking,  vacant,  through  a  hazy  wood, 
I  saw  this  youth  as  he  despairing  stood:  561 
Those  same  dark  curls  blown  vagrant  in 

the  wind; 
Those   same  full  fringed  lids  a  constant 

blind 

Over  his  sullen  eyes:  I  saw  him  throw 
Himself  on  wither'd  leaves,  even  as  though 


72 


ENDYMION 


Death  had   come   sudden;   for  no  jot  he 

moved, 

Yet  mutter'd  wildly.    I  could  hear  he  loved 
Some  fair  immortal,  and  that  his  embrace 
Had  zoned  her  through  the  night.     There 

is  no  trace 
Of  this  in  heaven:   I  have  mark'd  each 

cheek,  570 

And  find  it  is  the  vainest  thing  to  seek; 
And  that  of  all  things  't  is  kept  secretest. 
Endymion  !  one  day  thou  wilt  be  blest: 
So  still  obey  the  guiding  hand  that  fends 
Thee   safely  through    these   wonders  for 

sweet  ends. 

'T  is  a  concealment  needful  in  extreme; 
And  if  I  guess'd  not  so,  the  sunny  beam 
Thou  shouldst  mount  up  with  me.  Now 

adieu  ! 
Here  must   we    leave   thee.'  —  At    these 

words  upflew 
The  impatient  doves,  uprose  the  floating 

car,  580 

Up  went  the  hum  celestial.     High  afar 
The  Latmian  saw  them  minish  into  naught; 
And,  when  all  were  clear  vanish'd,  still  he 

caught 

A  vivid  lightning  from  that  dreadful  bow. 
When  all  was  darken'd,  with  JEtnean  throe 
The  earth  closed  —  gave  a  solitary  moan  — 
And  left  him  once  again  in  twilight  lone. 

He  did  not  rave,  he  did  not  stare  aghast, 
For  all  those  visions  were  o'ergone,  and 

past, 

And  he  in  loneliness:  he  felt  assured       590 
Of  happy  times,  when  all  he  had  endured 
Would  seem  a  feather  to  the  mighty  prize. 
So,  with  unusual  gladness,  on  he  hies 
Through  caves,   and  palaces  of    mottled 

ore, 
Gold  dome,  and  crystal  wall,  and  turquois 

floor, 

Black  polish'd  porticos  of  awful  shade, 
And,  at  the  last,  a  diamond  balustrade, 
Leading  afar  past  wild  magnificence, 
Spiral  through   ruggedest  loopholes,   and 

thence 
.    Stretching  across  a  void,  then  guiding  o'er 


Enormous   chasms,   where,   all   foam   and 

roar,  60 1 

Streams  subterranean  tease  their  granite 

beds; 

Then  heighten'd  just  above  the  silvery  heads 
Of  a  thousand  fountains,  so  that  he  could 

dash 
The   waters   with   his   spear;    but   at   the 

splash, 
Done  heedlessly,  those   spouting  columns 

rose 

Sudden  a  poplar's  height,  and  'gan  to  en- 
close 
His  diamond  path  with  fretwork,  streaming 

round 

Alive,  and  dazzling  cool,  and  with  a  sound, 
Haply,  like  dolphin  tumults,  when  sweet 

shells  6 10 

Welcome  the  float   of  Thetis.     Long  he 

dwells 

On  this  delight;  for,  every  minute's  space, 
The  streams  with  changed  magic  interlace : 
Sometimes  like  delicatest  lattices, 
Cover'd  with  crystal  vines;  then  weeping 

trees, 

Moving  about  as  in  a  gentle  wind, 
Which,  in  a  wink,  to  watery  gauze  refined, 
Pour'd  into  shapes  of  curtain'd  canopies, 
Spangled,  and  rich  with  liquid  broideries 
Of  flowers,  peacocks,  swans,   and  naiads 

fair.  620 

Swifter  than  lightning  went  these  wonders 

rare; 

And  then  the  water,  into  stubborn  streams 
Collecting,   mimick'd  the   wrought   oaken 

beams, 

Pillars,  and  frieze,  and  high  fantastic  roof, 
Of  those  dusk  places  in  times  far  aloof 
Cathedrals  calFd.     He  bade  a  loth  fare- 
well 
To  these  founts  Protean,  passing  gulf,  and 

dell, 
And  torrent,    and    ten    thousand    jutting 

shapes, 
Half    seen   through    deepest    gloom,    and 

griesly  gapes, 

Blackening  on  every  side,  and  overhead    630 
A  vaulted  dome  like  Heaven's,  far  bespread 


BOOK   SECOND 


73 


With  starlight  gems:  aye,  all  so  huge  and 

strange, 

The  solitary  felt  a  hurried  change 
Working     within     him     into     something 

dreary, — 

Vex'd  like  a  morning  eagle,  lost,  and  weary, 
And  purblind  amid  foggy,  midnight  wolds. 
But  he  revives  at  once:  for  who  beholds 
New  sudden  things,  nor  casts  his  mental 

slough  ? 

Forth  from  a  rugged  arch,  in  the  dusk  be- 
low, 639 
Came  mother  Cybele  !  alone  —  alone  — 
In  sombre  chariot;  dark  foldings  thrown 
About  her  majesty,  and  front  death-pale, 
With  turrets  crown'd.     Four  maned  lions 

hale 
The  sluggish  wheels;  solemn  their  toothed 

maws, 

Their  surly  eyes  brow-hidden,  heavy  paws 
Uplifted  drowsily,  and  nervy  tails 
Cowering  their  tawny  brushes.     Silent  sails 
This   shadowy  queen  athwart,  and  faints 

away 
In  another  gloomy  arch. 

Wherefore  delay, 

Young  traveller,  in  such  a  mournful  place  ? 
Art  thou  wayworn,  or  canst   not  further 

trace  651 

The  diamond  path?     And  does  it  indeed 

end 
Abrupt   in  middle   air  ?      Yet  earthward 

bend 

Thy  forehead,  and  to  Jupiter  cloud-borne 
Call  ardently  !     He  was  indeed  wayworn; 
Abrupt,  in  middle  air,  his  way  was  lost; 
To  cloud-borne  Jove  he  bowed,  and  there 

crost 
Towards  him  a  large  eagle,  'twixt  whose 

wings, 
Without   one    impious   word,   himself    he 

flings, 

Committed  to  the  darkness  and  the  gloom : 
Down,  down,  uncertain  to  what  pleasant 

doom,  661 

Swift   as  a  fathoming   plummet  down  he 

fell 


Through  unknown  things;  till  exhaled  as- 
phodel, 

And  rose,  with  spicy  fannings  interbreathed, 

Came  swelling  forth  where  little  caves  were 
wreathed 

So  thick  with  leaves  and  mosses,  that  they 
seem'd 

Large  honeycombs  of  green,  and  freshly 
teem'd 

With  airs  delicious.     In  the  greenest  nook 

The  eagle  landed  him,  and  farewell  toek. 

It  was  a  jasmine  bower,  all  bestrown  67  j 
With  golden  moss.     His  every  sense  had 

grown 

Ethereal  for  pleasure;  'bove  his  head 
Flew  a  delight  half-graspable ;  his  tread 
Was  Hesperean;  to  his  capable  ears 
Silence  was  music  from  the  holy  spheres; 
A  dewy  luxury  was  in  his  eyes; 
The  little  flowers  felt  his  pleasant  sighs 
And  stirr'd  them  faintly.      Verdant  cave 

and  cell 
He  wander'd  through,   oft  wondering  at 

such  swell 

Of  sudden  exaltation:  but,  *  Alas  ! '          680 
Said  he,  '  will  all  this  gush  of  feeling  pass 
Away  in  solitude  ?    And  must  they  wane, 
Like  melodies  upon  a  sandy  plain, 
Without  an  echo  ?     Then  shall  I  be  left 
So  sad,  so  melancholy,  so  bereft  ! 
Yet  still  I  feel  immortal !     O  my  love, 
My  breath  of  life,  where  art  thou  ?     High 

above, 
Dancing    before    the    morning    gates    of 

heaven  ? 

Or  keeping  watch  among  those  starry  seven, 
Old  Atlas'  children  ?     Art  a  maid  of  the 

waters,  690 

One  of  shell-winding  Triton's  bright-hair'd 

daughters  ? 

Or  art,  impossible  !  a  nymph  of  Dian's, 
Weaving  a  coronal  of  tender  scions 
For  very  idleness  ?     Where'er  thou  art, 
Methinks  it  now  is  at  my  will  to  start 
Into  thine  arms;  to  scare  Aurora's  train, 
And  snatch  thee  from  the  morning;  o'er 

the  main 


74 


ENDYMION 


To  scud  like  a  wild  bird,  and  take  thee  off 
From  thy  sea-foamy  cradle;  or  to  doff 
Thy  shepherd  vest,   and  woo  thee   'mid 

fresh  leaves.  700 

No,  no,  too  eagerly  my  soul  deceives 
Its  powerless  self:  I  know  this  cannot  be. 
O  let  me  then  by  some  sweet  dreaming 

flee 

To  her  enhancements :  hither  sleep  awhile  ! 
Hither  most  gentle  sleep  !  and  soothing  foil 
For  some  few  hours  the  coming  solitude.' 

Thus  spake  he,  and  that  moment  felt 

endued 

With  power  to  dream  deliciously;  so  wound 
Through  a  dim  passage,  searching  till  he 

found 
The  smoothest  mossy  bed  and    deepest, 

where  710 

He  threw  himself,  and  just  into  the  air 
Stretching  his  indolent  arms,  he  took,  O 

bliss  ! 
A  naked  waist:   'Fair  Cupid,  whence   is 

this  ? ' 
A    well-known    voice   sigh'd,  'Sweetest, 

here  am  I ! ' 

At  which  soft  ravishment,  with  doting  cry 
They  trembled  to  each  other.  —  Helicon  ! 
O  fountain'd  hill !     Old  Homer's  Helicon  ! 
That  thou  wouldst  spout  a  little  streamlet 

o'er 
These  sorry  pages;  then  the  verse  would 


And  sing  above  this  gentle  pair,  like  lark 
Over  his  nested  jroung:  but  all  is  dark    721 
Around  thine  aged  top,  and  thy  clear  fount 
Exhales  in  mists  to  heaven.    Aye,  the  count 
Of  mighty  Poets  is  made  up;  the  scroll 
Is  folded  by  the  Muses;  the  bright  roll 
Is  in  Apollo's  hand:  our  dazed  eyes 
Have  seen  a  new  tinge  in  the  western  skies: 
The  world  has  done  its  duty.     Yet,  oh  yet, 
Although  the  sun  of  poesy  is  set, 
These  lovers  did  embrace,  and  we  must 
weep  730 

That  there  is  no  old  power  left  to  steep 
A  quill  immortal  in  their  joyous  tears. 
Long  time  in  silence  did  their  anxious  fears 


Question  that  thus  it  was;  long  time  they 

lay 

Fondling  and  kissing  every  doubt  away; 
Long  time  ere  soft  caressing  sobs  began 
To  mellow  into  words,  and  then  there  ran 
Two  bubbling  springs  of  talk  from  their 

sweet  lips. 

*  O  known  Unknown !  from  whom  my  be- 
ing Sips  739 

Such  darling  essence,  wherefore  may  I  not 
Be  ever  in  these  arms  ?  in  this  sweet  spot 
Pillow  my  chin  for  ever  ?  ever  press 
These  toying  hands  and  kiss  their  smooth 

excess  ? 

Why  not  for  ever  and  for  ever  feel 
That  breath  about  my  eyes  ?  Ah,  thou  wilt 

steal 

Away  from  me  again,  indeed,  indeed  — 
Thou  wilt  be  gone  away,  and  wilt  not  heed 
My  lonely  madness.  Speak,  delicious  fair 
Is  —  is  it  to  be  so  ?  No  !  Who  will  dare 
To  pluck  thee  from  me?  And,  of  thine 
own  will,  750 

Full  well  I  feel  thou  wouldst  not  leave  me. 

StiU 

Let  me  entwine  thee  surer,  surer  —  now 
How  can  we  part  ?     Elysium  !     Who  art 

thou? 

Who,  that  thou  canst  not  be  for  ever  here, 
Or  lift  me  with  thee  to  some  starry  sphere  ? 
Enchantress  !  tell  me  by  this  soft  embrace, 
By  the  most  soft  completion  of  thy  face, 
Those  lips,  O  slippery   blisses,  twinkling 

eyes, 

And  by  these  tenderest,  milky  sovereign- 
ties— 

These  tenderest,  and  by  the  nectar- wine, 
The  passion ' «  O  doved  Ida  the  di- 
vine !  761 
Endymion  !  dearest !     Ah,  unhappy  me  ! 
His  soul  will  'scape  us  —  O  felicity  ! 
How  he  does  love  me  !     His  poor  temples 

beat 
To   the  very  tune   of   love  —  how   sweet, 

sweet,  sweet. 
Revive,  dear  youth,  or  I  shall  faint  and 

die; 
Revive,  or  these  soft  hours  will  hurry  by 


BOOK   SECOND 


75 


In  tranced  dullness;   speak,  and   let  that 

spell 

Affright  this  lethargy  !     I  cannot  quell 
Its  heavy  pressure,  and  will  press  at  least 
My  lips   to   thine,  that   they   may   richly 
feast  77 1 

Until  we  taste  the  life  of  love  again. 
What!   dost  thou  move?  dost  kiss?    O 

bliss  !  O  pain  ! 

I  love  thee,  youth,  more  than  I  can  con- 
ceive ; 

And  so  long  absence  from  thee  doth  be- 
reave 

My  soul  of  any  rest:  yet  must  I  hence: 
Yet,  can  I  not  to  starry  eminence 
Uplift  thee;  nor  for  very  shame  can  own 
Myself  to  thee.     Ah,  dearest,  do  not  groan 
Or  thou  wilt  force  me  from  this  secrecy,  780 
And  I  must  blush  in  heaven.     O  that  I 
Had  done  it  already  ;   that  the  dreadful 

smiles 
At    my   lost    brightness,   my  impassion'd 

wiles, 

Had  waned  from  Olympus'  solemn  height, 
And  from  all  serious  Gods;  that  our  de- 
light 

Was  quite  forgotten,  save  of  us  alone  ! 
And  wherefore  so  ashamed  ?     'T  is  but  to 

atone 
For    endless    pleasure,  by    some    coward 

blushes: 

Yet  must  I  be  a  coward  !  —  Honour  rushes 
Too  palpable  before  me  —  the  sad  look  79o 
Of  Jove  —  Minerva's  start  —  no  bosom 

shook 

With  awe  of  purity  —  no  Cupid  pinion 
In  reverence  veiled  —  my  crystalline  do- 
minion 

Half  lost,  and  all   old  hymns  made  nul- 
lity ! 

But  what  is  this  to  love  ?     O  I  could  fly 
With  thee  into  the  ken  of  heavenly  pow- 
ers, 
So  thou  wouldst  thus,  for  many  sequent 

hours, 
Press  me  so  sweetly.     Now  I  swear  at 

once 
That  I  am  wise,  that  Pallas  is  a  dunce  — 


Perhaps   her  love  like    mine   is  but  un- 
known —  800 

0  I  do  think  that  I  have  been  alone 

In  chastity:  yes,  Pallas  has  been  sighing, 
While  every  eve  saw  me  my  hair  uptying 
With  fingers  cool  as  aspen  leaves.     Sweet 
love, 

1  was  as  vague  as  solitary  dove, 

Nor  knew  that  nests  were  built.     Now  a 

soft  kiss  — 

Aye,  by  that  kiss,  I  vow  an  endless  bliss, 
An  immortality  of  passion  's  thine: 
Ere  long  I  will  exalt  thee  to  the  shine 
Of  heaven  ambrosial;  and  we  will  shade   810 
Ourselves  whole  summers  by  a  river  glade; 
And  I  will  tell  thee  stories  of  the  sky, 
And  breathe  thee  whispers  of  its  minstrelsy. 
My  happy  love  will  overwing  all  bounds  ! 
O  let  me  melt  into  thee;  let  the  sounds 
Of  our  close  voices  marry  at  their  birth; 
Let  us  entwine  hoveringly  —    O  dearth 
Of  human  words  !    roughness  of   mortal 

speech  ! 

Lispings  empyrean  will  I  sometime  teach 
Thine    honey'd  tongue  —  lute-breathings, 

which  I  gasp  820 

To  have   thee  understand,   now  while    I 

clasp 
Thee  thus,  and  weep  for  fondness  —  I  am 

pain'd, 

Endymiou:  woe  !  woe  !  is  grief  contain'd 
In  the  very  deeps  of  pleasure,  my  sole 

lif  e  ?  '  — 

Hereat,  with  many  sobs,  her  gentle  strife 
Melted  into  a  languor.     He  return'd 
Entranced  vows  and  tears. 

Ye  who  have  yearn'd 
With  too  much  passion,  will  here  stay  and 


For  the  mere  sake  of  truth;  as  't  is  a  ditty 
Not  of  these  days,  but  long  ago  't  was  told 
By  a  cavern  wind  unto  a  forest  old;         831 
And  then  the  forest  told  it  in  a  dream 
To  a  sleeping  lake,  whose  cool  and  level 

gleam 

A  poet  caught  as  he  was  journeying 
To  Plufibus'  shrine;  and  in  it  he  did  fling 


76 


ENDYMION 


His  weary  limbs,  bathing  an  hour's  space, 
And  after,  straight  in  that  inspired  place 
He  sang  the  story  up  into  the  air, 
Giving  it  universal  freedom.     There 
Has  it  been  ever  sounding  for  those  ears  840 
Whose  tips  are  glowing  hot.     The  legend 

cheers 
Yon   sentinel  stars;  and  he    who   listens 

to  it 
Must  surely  be   self-doom'd   or  he   will 

rue  it: 
For  quenchless  burnings  come  upon  the 

heart, 

Made  fiercer  by  a  fear  lest  any  part 
Should  be  engulfed  in  the  eddying  wind. 
As  much  as  here  is  penn'd  doth  always 

find 
A  resting-place,  thus  much  comes  clear  and 

plain; 

Anon  the  strange  voice  is  upon  the  wane  — 
And  't  is  but  echoed  from  departing  sound, 
That  the  fair  visitant  at  last  unwound  851 
Her  gentle  limbs,  and  left  the  youth 


Thus  the  tradition  of  the  gusty  deep. 

Now  turn    we   to  our   former    chroni- 
clers. — 

Endymion  awoke,  that  grief  of  hers 
Sweet  paining  on  his  ear:  he  sickly  guess'd 
How  lone  he  was  once  more,  and  sadly 

press'd 

His  empty  arms  together,  hung  his  head, 
And  most  forlorn  upon  that  widow'd  bed 
Sat  silently.  Love's  madness  he  had 

known:  860 

Often  with  more  than  tortured  lion's  groan 
Meanings  had   burst   from  him;   but  now 

that  rage 

Had  pass'd  away:  no  longer  did  he  wage 
A  rough-voiced  war  against  the  dooming 

stars. 
No,  he  had  felt  too  much  for  such  harsh 

jars: 

The  lyre  of  his  soul  ^Eolian  tuned 
Forgot  all  violence,  and  but  communed 
With    melancholy    thought  :    O    he    had 

swoon'd 


Drunken  from  pleasure's   nipple;  and  his 

love 
Henceforth  was  dove-like.  —  Loth  was  he 

to  move  870 

From  the  imprinted  couch,  and  when  he 

did, 
'T  was  with  slow,  languid  paces,  and  face 

hid 
In  muffling  hands.     So  temper'd,  out  he 

stray'd 
Half  seeing  visions   that  might  have  dis- 

may'd 

Alecto's  serpents;  ravishments  more  keen 
Than  Hermes'  pipe,  when  anxious  he  did 

lean 

Over  eclipsing  eyes:  and  at  the  last 
It  was  a  sounding  grotto,  vaulted,  vast, 
O'erstudded   with    a    thousand,    thousand 

pearls,  • 

And  crimson-mouthed  shells  with  stubborn 

curls,  880 

Of  every  shape  and  size,  even  to  the  bulk 
In  which  whales  harbour  close,  to  brood 

and  sulk 

Against  an  endless  storm.  Moreover  too, 
Fish-semblances,  of  green  and  azure  hue, 
Ready  to  snort  their  streams.  In  this  cool 

wonder 

Endymion  sat  down,  and  'gan  to  ponder 
On  all  his  life:  his  youth,  up  to  the  day 
When  'mid  acclaim,  and  feasts,  and  gar- 
lands gay, 

He  stept  upon  his  shepherd  throne :  the  look 
Of  his  white  palace  in  wild  forest  nook,  890 
And  all  the  revels  he  had  lorded  there: 
Each  tender  maiden  whom  he  once  thought 

fair, 

With  every  friend  and  fellow- woodlander  — 
Pass'd  like  a  dream  before  him.  Then  the 

spur 

Of  the  old  bards  to  mighty  deeds:  his  plans 
To  nurse  the  golden  age  'mong  shepherd 

clans : 

That  wondrous  night:  the  great  Pan-festi- 
val: 

His  sister's  sorrow;  and  his  wanderings  all, 
Until  into  the  earth's  deep  maw  he  rush'd: 
Then  all  its  buried  magic,  till  it  flush'd  900 


BOOK    SECOND 


77 


High   with    excessive    love.     'And   now,' 

thought  he, 

'  How  long  must  I  remain  in  jeopardy 
Of  blank  amazements  that  amaze  no  more  ? 
Now  I  have  tasted  her  sweet  soul  to  the 

core, 

All  other  depths  are  shallow:  essences, 
Once  spiritual,  are  like  muddy  lees, 
Meant  but  to  fertilize  my  earthly  root, 
And  make  my  branches  lift  a  golden  fruit 
Into  the  bloom  of  heaven:  other  light, 
Though  it  be  quick  and  sharp   enough  to 

blight  910 

The  Olympian  eagle's  vision,  is  dark, 
Dark  as  the  parentage  of  chaos.     Hark  ! 
My  silent  thoughts  are  echoing  from  these 

shells; 

Or  they  are  but  the  ghosts,  the  dying  swells 
Of  noises  far  away  ?  —  list ! '  —  Hereupon 
He  kept  an  anxious  ear.  The  humming 

tone 

Came  louder,  and  behold,  there  as  he  lay, 
On  either  side  outgush'd,  with  misty  spray, 
A  copious  spring;  and  both  together  dash'd 
Swift,  mad,  fantastic  round  the  rocks,  and 

lash'd  920 

Among  the  conchs  and  shells  of  the  lofty 

grot, 
Leaving   a   trickling   dew.     At  last   they 

shot 
Down  from  the  ceiling's  height,  pouring  a 

noise 
As  of  some  breathless  racers  whose  hopes 

poise 
Upon  the  last   few  steps,  and  with   spent 

force 
Along   the    ground  they  took   a   winding 

course. 
Endymion   follow'd  —  for   it   seem'd  that 

one 

Ever  pursued,  the  other  strove  to  shun  — 
Follow'd  their  languid  mazes,  till  well  nigh 
He  had  left  thinking  of  the  mystery,  —  930 
And  was  now  rapt  in  tender  hoverings 
Over  the  vanish'd  bliss.     Ah !   what  is  it 

sings 
His  dream   away  ?      What  melodies  are 

these  ? 


They  sound  as  through  the  whispering  of 

trees, 
Not   native  in  such  barren  vaults.     Give 

ear  ! 

*  O  Arethusa,  peerless  nymph  !  why  fear 
Such  tenderness  as  mine  ?      Great  Dian, 

why, 

Why  didst  thou  hear  her  prayer  ?    O  that  I 
Were  rippling  round  her   dainty  fairness 

now,  939 

Circling  about  her  waist,  and  striving  how 
To  entice  her  to  a  dive  !  then  stealing  in 
Between  her  luscious  lips  and  eyelids  thin. 

0  that  her  shining  hair  was  in  the  sun, 
And  I  distilling  from  it  thence  to  run 

In  amorous  rillets  down  her  shrinking  form  ! 
To  linger  on  her  lily  shoulders,  warm 
Between  her  kissing    breasts,  and  every 

charm 
Touch  raptured  !  —  see   how  painfully   I 

flow: 

Fair  maid,*be  pitiful  to  my  great  woe. 
Stay,  stay  thy  weary  course,   and  let  me 

lead,  950 

A  happy  wooer,  to  the  flowery  mead 
Where    all    that    beauty    snared    me.'  — 

' Cruel  god, 

Desist !  or  my  offended  mistress'  nod 
Will  stagnate  all  thy  fountains:  — tease  me 

not 

With  siren  words  —  Ah,  have  I  really  got 
Such  power  to  madden  thee  ?     And  is  it 

true  — 

Away,  away,  or  I  shall  dearly  rue 
My  very  thoughts :  in  mercy  then  away, 
Kindest  Alpheus,  for  should  I  obey  959 

My  own  dear  will,  't  would  be  a  deadly 

bane.' 
*  O,  Oread-Queen  \  would  that  thou  hadst  a 

pain 
Like  this  of  mine,  then  would  I  fearless 

turn 
And  be  a  criminal.'     'Alas,  I  burn, 

1  shudder  —  gentle  river,  get  thee  hence. 
Alpheus  !  thou  enchanter  !  every  sense 
Of  mine  was  once  made  perfect  in  these 

woods. 


ENDYMION 


Fresh  breezes,  bowery  lawns,  and  innocent 

floods, 
Ripe  fruits,  and  lonely  couch,  contentment 

gave; 

But  ever  since  I  heedlessly  did  lave 
In  thy  deceitful  stream,  a  panting  glow    970 
Grew  strong  within  me:    wherefore  serve 

me  so, 

And  call  it  love  ?  Alas  !  't  was  cruelty. 
Not  once  more  did  I  close  my  happy  eye 
Amid  the  thrush's  song.  Away  !  avaunt ! 

0  't  was  a  cruel  thing.'  — «  Now  thou  dost 

taunt 

So  softly,  Arethusa,  that  I  think 
If  thou  wast  playing  on  my  shady  brink, 
Thou  wouldst  bathe  once  again.     Innocent 

maid ! 

Stifle  thine  heart  no  more;  —  nor  be  afraid 
Of  angry  powers:  there  are  deities  980 

Will  shade  us  with  their  wings.     Those 

fitful  sighs 

'Tis  almost  death  to  hear:  O  let  me  pour 
A  dewy  balm  upon  them  !  —  fear  no  more, 
Sweet  Arethusa  !  Dian's  self  must  feel 
Sometimes  these  very  pangs.    Dear  maiden, 

steal 

Blushing  into  my  soul,  and  let  us  fly 
These  dreary  caverns  for  the  open  sky. 

1  will  delight  thee  all  my  winding  course, 
From  the  green  sea  up  to  my  hidden  source 
About  Arcadian  forests;  and  will  show   990 
The  channels  where  my  coolest  waters  flow 
Through  mossy  rocks;  where  'mid  exuber- 
ant green, 

I  roam  in  pleasant  darkness,  more  unseen 
Than  Saturn  in  his  exile;  where  I  brim 
Round  flowery  islands,  and  take  thence  a 

skim 

Of  mealy  sweets,  which  myriads  of  bees 
Buzz  from  their  honey 'd  wings:  and  thou 

shouldst  please 
Thyself  to  choose  the  richest,  where  we 

might 

Be  incense-pillow'd  every  summer  night. 
Doff  all  sad  fears,  thou  white  deliciousness, 
And  let  us  be  thus  comforted;  unless     1001 
Thou  couldst  rejoice  to  see  my  hopeless 

stream 


Hurry   distracted    from    Sol's    temperate 

beam, 
And  pour  to  death    along  some  hungry 

sands.'  — 

'  What  can  I  do,  Alpheus  ?     Diau  stands 
Severe  before  me:  persecuting  fate  ! 
Unhappy  Arethusa  !  thou  wast  late 
A   huntress  free   in' —     At  this,  sudden 

fell 
Those  two  sad  streams   adown  a  fearful 

dell. 
The  Latmian    listen'd,  but  he  heard  no 

more,  1010 

Save  echo,  faint  repeating  o'er  and  o'er 
The  name  of  Arethusa.  On  the  verge 
Of  that  dark  gulf  he  wept,  and  said :  '  I 

urge 

Thee,  gentle  Goddess  of  my  pilgrimage, 
By  our  eternal  hopes,  to  soothe,  to  assuage, 
If  thou  art  powerful,  these  lovers'  pains; 
And   make   them  happy  in  some    happy 

plains.' 

He  turn'd  —  there  was  a  whelming  sound 

—  he  stept, 

There  was  a  cooler  light;  and  so  he  kept 
Towards  it  by  a  sandy  path,  and  lo  !       1020 
More  suddenly  than  doth  a  moment  go, 
The  visions  of  the  earth  were   gone  and 

fled  — 
He  saw  the  giant  sea  above  his  head. 


BOOK   III 

THERE  are  who  lord  it  o'er  their  fellow- 
men 

With  most  prevailing  tinsel:  who  unpen 
Their  baaing  vanities,  to  browse  away 
The  comfortable  green  and  juicy  hay 
From  human   pastures;    or,    O    torturing 

fact! 
Who,  through  an  idiot  blink,  will  see  un- 

pack'd 

Fire-branded  foxes  to  sear  up  and  singe 
Our  gold  and  ripe-ear'd  hopes.     With  not 

one  tinge 
Of  sanctuary  splendour,  not  a  sight 


BOOK   THIRD 


79 


Able  to  face  an  owl's,  they  still  are  dight 
By  the   blear-eyed  nations  in  empurpled 

vests,  ii 

And  crowns,  and  turbans.     With  unladen 

breasts, 
Save  of  blown  self-applause,  they  proudly 

mount 
To  their  spirit's  perch,  their  being's  high 

account, 
Their  tiptop  nothings,  their  dull  skies,  their 

thrones  — 

Amid  the  fierce  intoxicating  tones 
Of    trumpets,   shoutings,   and    belabour'd 

drums, 
And   sudden   cannon.     Ah !    how  all   this 

hums, 
In  wakeful  ears,   like   uproar    past    and 

gone  — 

Like  thunder-clouds  that  spake  to  Baby- 
lon, 20 
And   set    those    old    Chaldeans    to   their 

tasks.  — 

Are  then  regalities  all  gilded  masks  ? 
No,  there  are  throned  seats  unscalable 
But  by  a  patient  wing,  a  constant  spell, 
Or  by  ethereal  things  that,  uncontined, 
Can  make  a  ladder  of  the  eternal  wind, 
And  poise  about  in  cloudy  thunder-tents 
To  watch  the  abysm-birth  of  elements. 
Aye,  'bove  the  withering  of  old-lipp'd  Fate 
A  thousand  Powers  keep  religious  state,  30 
In  water,  fiery  realm,  and  airy  bourne; 
And,  silent  as  a  consecrated  urn, 
Hold  spherey  sessions  for  a  season  due. 
Yet  few  of  these  far  majesties,  ah,  few  ! 
Have  bared  their  operations  to  this  globe  — 
Few,  who  with  gorgeous  pageantry  enrobe 
Our  piece  of  heaven  —  whose  benevolence 
Shakes  hand  with  our  own  Ceres;   every 

sense 

Filling  with  spiritual  sweets  to  plenitude, 
As  bees  gorge  full  their  cells.     And,  by 

the  feud  40 

'Twixt  Nothing  and  Creation,  I  here  swear, 
Eterne  Apollo  !  that  thy  Sister  fair 
Is  of  all  these  the  gentlier-mightiest. 
When  thy  gold  breath  is  misting  in  the 

west, 


She  unobserved  steals  unto  her  throne, 
And  there  she  sits  most  meek  and  most 

alone; 

As  if  she  had  not  pomp  subservient; 
As  if  thine  eye,  high  Poet !  was  not  bent 
Towards  her  with  the  Muses  in  thine  heart; 
As  if  the  minist'ring  stars  kept  not  apart, 
Waiting  for  silver-footed  messages.  $j 

O  Moon  !  the  oldest  shades  'mong  oldest 

trees 

Feel  palpitations  when  thou  lookest  in: 
O  Moon  !  old  boughs  lisp  forth  a  holier  din 
The  while  they  feel  thine  airy  fellowship. 
Thou  dost  bless  everywhere,  with  silver  lip 
Kissing  dead  things  to  life.     The  sleeping 

kine, 
Couch'd  in  thy  brightness,  dream  of  fields 

divine: 

Innumerable  mountains  rise,  and  rise, 
Ambitious  for  the  hallowing  of  thine  eyes; 
And  yet  thy  benediction  passeth  not          61 
One  obscure  hiding-place,  one  little  spot 
Where  pleasure  may  be  sent:  the  nested 

wren 

Has  thy  fair  face  within  its  tranquil  ken, 
And  from  beneath  a  sheltering  ivy  leaf 
Takes  glimpses  of  thee ;  thou  art  a  relief 
To  the  poor  patient  oyster,  where  it  sleeps 
Within    its    pearly   house.  —  The    mighty 


The  monstrous  sea  is  thine  —  the  myriad 

sea! 
O   Moon !    far-spooming  Ocean  bows    to 

thee,  7o 

And  Tellus  feels  his  forehead's  cumbrous 

load. 

Cynthia  !  where  art  thou  now  ?     What 

far  abode 

Of  green  or  silvery  bower  doth  enshrine 
Such  utmost  beauty  ?    Alas,  thou  dost  pine 
For  one  as  sorrowful:  thy  cheek  is  pale 
For  one  whose  cheek  is  pale:  thou  dost  be- 
wail 
His  tears,  who  weeps  for  thee.    Where  dost 

thou  sigh  ? 

Ah  !  surely  that  light  peeps  from  Vesper's 
eye, 


8o 


ENDYMION 


Or  what  a  thing  is  love  !    'Tis  She,  but  lo! 

How  changed,  how  full  of  ache,  how  gone 
in  woe  !  80 

She  dies  at  the  thinnest  cloud;  her  loveli- 
ness 

Is  wan  on  Neptune's  blue:  yet  there  's  a 
stress 

Of  love-spangles,  just  off  yon  cape  of  trees, 

Dancing  upon  the  waves,  as  if  to  please 

The  curly  foam  with  amorous  influence. 

O,  not  so  idle:  for  down-glancing  thence, 

She  fathoms  eddies,  and  runs  wild  about 

O'erwhelming  water-courses;  scaring  out 

The  thorny  sharks  from  hiding-holes,  and 
fright'ning 

Their  savage  eyes  with  unaccustom'd  light- 
ning. 90 

Where  will  the  splendour  be  content  to 
reach  ? 

O  love  !  how  potent  hast  thou  been  to 
teach 

Strange  journeyings  !  Wherever  beauty 
dwells, 

In  gulf  or  aerie,  mountains  or  deep  dells, 

In  light,  in  gloom,  in  star  or  blazing  sun, 

Thou  pointest  out  the  way,  and  straight  't  is 
won. 

Amid  his  toil  thou  gavest,Leander  breath; 

Thou  leddest  Orpheus  through  the  gleams 
of  death ; 

Thou  madest  Pluto  bear  thin  element; 

And  now,  O  winged  Chieftain  !  thou  hast 
sent  ioo 

A  moonbeam  to  the  deep,  deep  water- 
world, 

To  find  Endymion. 

On  gold  sand  impearPd 
With  lily  shells,  and  pebbles  milky  white, 
Poor  Cynthia  greeted  him,  and  soothed  her 

light 

Against  his  pallid  face:  he  felt  the  charm 
To  breathlessness,  and  suddenly  a  warm 
Of  his  heart's  blood:  't  was  very  sweet;  he 

stay'd 
His  wandering  steps,  and   half-entranced 

laid 
His  head  upon  a  tuft  of  straggling  weeds, 


To  taste  the  gentle  moon,  and  freshening 
beads,  i  to 

Lash'd  from  the  crystal  roof  by  fishes' 
tails. 

And  so  he  kept,  until  the  rosy  veils 

Mantling  the  east,  by  Aurora's  peering 
hand 

Were  lifted  from  the  water's  breast,  and 
fann'd 

Into  sweet  air;  and  sober'd  morning  came 

Meekly  through  billows:  —  when  like  taper- 
flame 

Left  sudden  by  a  dallying  breath  of  air, 

He  rose  in  silence,  and  once  more  'gan  fare 

Along  his  fated  way. 

Far  had  he  roam'd, 
With  nothing  save  the  hollow  vast,   that 

foam  d  1 20 

Above,  around,  and  at  his  feet;  save  things 
More  dead  than  Morpheus'  imaginings: 
Old  rusted  anchors,  helmets,  breastplates 

large 
Of  gone   sea- warriors ;   brazen   beaks  and 

targe; 

Rudders  that  for  a  hundred  years  had  lost 
The  sway  of  human  hand;  gold  vase  em- 

boss'd 

With  long-forgotten  story,  and  wherein 
No  reveller  had  ever  dipp'd  a  chin 
But  those  of  Saturn's  vintage;  mouldering 

scrolls, 
Writ  in  the   tongue  of  heaven,  by  those 

souls  130 

Who  first  were  on  the  earth;  and  sculptures 

rude 

In  ponderous  stone,  developing  the  mood 
Of  ancient  Nox;  —  then  skeletons  of  man, 
Of  beast,  behemoth,  and  leviathan, 
And  elephant,  and  eagle,  and  huge  jaw 
Of  nameless  monster.     A  cold  leaden  awe 
These  secrets  struck  into  him ;  and  unless 
Dian  had  chased  away  that  heaviness, 
He  might  have  died:  but  now,  with  cheered 

feel, 
He  onward  kept;  wooing  these  thoughts  to 

steal  140 

About  the  labyrinth  in  his  soul  of  love. 


BOOK   THIRD 


81 


« What   is    there   in   thee,   Moon  !    that 

thou  shouldst  move 

My  heart  so  potently  ?     When  yet  a  child 
I  oft  have  dried  my  tears  when  thou  hast 

smiled. 
Thou  seem'dst  my  sister:  hand  in  hand  we 

went 

From  eve  to  morn  across  the  firmament. 
No  apples  would  I  gather  from  the  tree, 
Till  thou  hadst  cooFd  their  cheeks  de- 

liciously: 

No  tumbling  water  ever  spake  romance, 
But  when  my  eyes  with  thine  thereon  could 

dance:  150 

No  woods  were  green  enough,  no  bower 

divine, 

Until  thou  liftedst  up  thine  eyelids  fine: 
In  sowing-time  ne'er  would  I  dibble  take, 
Or  drop  a  seed,  till  thou  wast  wide  awake; 
And,  in  the  summer  tide  of  blossoming, 
.No  one  but  thee  hath  heard  me  blithely  sing 
And  mesh  my  dewy  flowers  all  the  night. 
No  melody  was  like  a  passing  spright 
.If  it  went  not  to  solemnize  thy  reign. 
Yes,  in  my  boyhood,  every  joy  and  pain    160 
,By  thee  were  fashion'd  to  the  self -same  end; 
And  as  I  grew  in  years,  still  didst  thou 

blend 
With  all  my  ardours;  thou  wast  the  deep 

glen; 
Thou  wast  the  mountain-top  —  the  sage's 

pen  — 
The  poet's  harp  —  the  voice  of  friends  — 

the  sun; 
Thou    wast   the   river  —  thou   wast   glory 

won; 
Thou  wast  my  clarion's  blast  —  thou  wast 

my  steed  — 
My    goblet    full    of    wine  —  my    topmost 

deed: — 
Thou   wast   the  charm  of  women,  lovely 

Moon  ! 

O  what  a  wild  and  harmonized  tune         170 
.My  spirit  struck  from  all  the  beautiful  ! 
On  some  bright  essence  could  I  lean,  and 

lull 

Myself  to  immortality:  I  prest 
Nature's  soft  pillow  in  a  wakeful  rest. 


But  gentle  Orb  !  there  came  a  nearer  bliss  — 
My  strange  love  came  —  Felicity's  abyss  ! 
She  came,  and  thou  didst  fade,  and  fade 

away  — 

Yet  not  entirely;  no,  thy  starry  sway 
Has  been  an  under-passion  to  this  hour. 
Now  I  begin  to  feel  thine  orby  power      180 
Is  coming  fresh  upon  me:  O  be  kind, 
Keep  back  thine  influence,  and  do  not  blind 
My  sovereign  vision.  —  Dearest  love,  for- 
give 

That  I  can  think  away  from  thee  and  live  !  — 
Pardon  me,  airy  planet,  that  I  prize 
One  thought  beyond  thine  argent  luxuries  ! 
How  far  beyond  ! '     At  this  a  surprised 

start 

Frosted  the  springing  verdure  of  his  heart; 
For  as  he  lifted  up  his  eyes  to  swear 
How  his  own  goddess  was  past  all  things 

fair,  190 

He  saw  far  in  the  concave  green  of  the  sea 
An  old  man  sitting  calm  and  peacefully. 
Upon  a  weeded  rock  this  old  man  sat, 
And  his  white  hair  was  awful,  and  a  mat 
Of  weeds  were  cold  beneath  his  cold  thin 

feet; 

And,  ample  as  the  largest  winding-sheet, 
A  cloak  of  blue  wrapp'd  up  his  aged  bones, 
O'erwrought  with  symbols  by  the  deepest 

groans 

Of  ambitious  magic:  every  ocean-form 
Was   woven    in   with   black    distinctness; 

storm,  200 

And  calm,  and  whispering,  and  hideous  roar 
Quicksand,   and   whirlpool,   and    deserted 

shore 
Were  emblem'd  in  the  woof;  with  every 


That  skims,  or  dives,  or  sleeps,  'twixt  cape 

and  cape. 
The  gulphing  whale  was  like  a  dot  in  the 

spell, 
Yet  look   upon   it,  and   'twould  size   and 

swell 

To  its  huge  self;  and  the  minutest  fish 
Would  pass  the  very  hardest  gazer's  wish, 
And  show  his  little  eye's  anatomy. 
Then  there  was  pictured  the  regality       2 10 


82 


ENDYMION 


Of  Neptune;   and  the   sea-nymphs  round 

his  state, 

In  beauteous  vassalage,  look  up  and  wait. 
Beside  this  old  man  lay  a  pearly  wand, 
And  in  his  lap  a  book,  the  which  he  conn'd 
So  steadfastly,  that  the  new  denizen 
Had  time  to  keep  him  in  amazed  ken, 
To  mark  these  shadowings,  and  stand  in 

awe. 

The  old  man  'raised  his  hoary  head  and 

saw 
The   wilder'd  stranger  —  seeming  not  to 

see, 

His  features  were  so  lifeless.    Suddenly  220 
He  woke  as  from  a  trance;  his  snow-white 

brows 
Went    arching  up,    and  like  two    magic 

ploughs 
Furrow'd  deep  wrinkles  in  his  forehead 

large, 

Which  kept  as  fixedly  as  rocky  marge, 
Till  round  his  wither'd  lips  had  gone  a 

smile. 

Then  up  he  rose,  like  one  whose  tedious  toil 
Had  watch'd  for  years  in  forlorn  hermitage, 
Who  had  not  from  mid-life  to  utmost  age 
Eased  in  one  accent  his  o'erburden'd  soul, 
Even  to  the  trees.     He  rose:  he  grasp'd 

his  stole,  230 

With  convulsed  clenches  waving  it  abroad, 
And  in  a  voice  of  solemn  joy,  that  awed 
Echo  into  oblivion,  he  said:  — 

« Thou  art  the  man  !     Now  shall  I  lay 

my  head 

In  peace  upon  my  watery  pillow :  now 
Sleep  will  come  smoothly  to  my  weary 

brow. 
O  Jove  !    I  shall  be  young  again,  be  young  ! 

0  shell-borne  Neptune,  I  am  pierced  and 

stung 
With  new-born  life  !     What  shall  I  do  ? 

Where  go, 
When  I  have   cast   this  serpent-skin    of 

woe  ?  —  240 

1  '11  swim  to  the  sirens,  and  one  moment 

listen 


Their  melodies,  and  see  their  long  hair 

glisten; 

Anon  upon  that  giant's  arm  I  '11  be, 
That  writhes  about  the  roots  of  Sicily: 
To  northern  seas  I  '11  in  a  twinkling  sail, 
And  mount  upon  the  snortings  of  a  whale 
To  some   black  cloud;  thence   down   I'll 

madly  sweep 

On  forked  lightning,  to  the  deepest  deep, 
Where  through  some  sucking  pool  I  will 

be  hurl'd 
With  rapture  to  the  other  side    of  the 

world !  250 

O,  I  am  full  of  gladness  !     Sisters  three, 
I  bow  full-hearted  to  your  old  decree  ! 
Yes,  every  god  be  thank'd,  and  power  be- 
nign, 

For  I  no  more  shall  wither,  droop,  and  pine. 
Thou  art  the  man ! '     Endymion  started 

back 
Dismay'd ;  and,  like  a  wretch  from  whom 

the  rack 

Tortures  hot  breath,  and  speech  of  agony, 
Mutter'd:  «  What  lonely  death  am  I  to  die 
In  this  cold  region  ?     Will  he  let  me  freeze, 
And  float  my  brittle  limbs  o'er  polar  seas  ? 
Or  will  he  touch  me  with  his  searing  hand, 
And  leave  a  black  memorial  on  the  sand  ? 
Or  tear  me  piecemeal  with  a  bony  saw,   263, 
And  keep  me  as  a  chosen  food  to  draw 
His   magian   fish   through   hated   fire  and 

flame? 

O  misery  of  hell  !  resistless,  tame, 
Am  I  to  be  burnt  up  ?     No,  I  will  shout, 
Until  the  gods  through  heaven's  blue  look 

out !  — 

O  Tartarus  !  but  some  few  days  agone 
Her  soft  arms  were  entwining  me,  and  on 
Her  voice  I  hung  like  fruit  among  green 

leaves:  .       271 

Her  lips  were  all  my  own,  and  —  ah,  ripe 


Of  happiness  !  ye  on  the  stubble  droop, 
But  never  may  be  garner'd.     I  must  stoop 
My  head,  and  kiss  death's  foot.     Love  ! 

love,  farewell ! 
Is  there  no  hope  from  thee  ?    This  horrid 

spell 


BOOK   THIRD 


Would   melt  at  thy  sweet   breath.  —  By 

Dian's  hind 
Feeding  from   her  white  fingers,  on  the 

wind 
I  see  thy  streaming  hair  !   and  now,  by 

Pan, 
I  care  not  for  this  old  mysterious  man  ! '  280 

He  spake,  and  walking  to  that  aged  form, 
Look'd  high  defiance.     Lo  !  his  heart  'gan 

warm 
With  pity,  for  the    gray-hair'd    creature 

wept. 
Had  he  then  wrong'd  a  heart  where  sorrow 

kept? 
Had    he,    though    blindly     contumelious, 

brought 
Rheum  to  kind  eyes,  a  sting  to  human 

thought, 

Convulsion  to  a  mouth  of  many  years  ? 
He  had  in  truth;  and  he  was  ripe  for  tears. 
The  penitent  shower  fell,  as  down  he  knelt 
Before  that  care-worn  sage,  who  trembling 

felt  290 

About  his  large  dark  locks,  and  faltering 

spake: 

1  Arise,  good  youth,  for  sacred  Phoebus' 

sake  ! 

I  know  thine  inmost  bosom,  and  I  feel 
A  very  brother's  yearning  for  thee  steal 
Into  mine  own:  for  why  ?  thou  openest 
The  prison  gates  that  have  so  long  opprest 
My  weary  watching.    Though  thou  know'st 

it  not, 

Thou  art  commission'd  to  this  fated  spot 
For  great  enfranchisement.      O  weep  no 

more  ! 

I  am  a  friend  to  love,  to  loves  of  yore:     300 
Aye,  hadst  thou  never  loved  an  unknown 

power, 

I  had  been  grieving  at  this  joyous  hour. 
But  even  now  most  miserable  old, 
I  saw  thee,  and  my  blood  no  longer  cold 
Gave  mighty  pulses:  in  this  tottering  case 
Grew  a  new  heart,  which  at  this  moment 

plays 
As  dancingly  as  thine.     Be  not  afraid, 


For  thou  shalt  hear  this  secret  all  display'd, 
Now  as  we  speed  towards  our  joyous  task.' 

So    saying,    this    young    soul    in   age's 

mask  3 10 

Went  forward  with  the  Carian  side  by  side-- 

Resuming  quickly  thus ;  while  ocean's  tide 

Hung  swollen  at  their  backs,  and  jewell'd 

sands 
Took  silently  their  foot-prints. 

*  My  soul  stands 

Now  past  the  midway  from  mortality, 
And  so  I  can  prepare  without  a  sigh 
To  tell  thee  briefly  all  my  joy  and  pain. 
I  was  a  fisher  once,  upon  this  main, 
And  my  boat  danced  in  every  creek  and  bay; 
Rough  billows  were  my  home  by  night  and 

day,  —  320 

The  sea-gulls  not  more  constant;  for  I  had 
No  housing  from  the  storm  and  tempests 

mad, 

But  hollow  rocks,  —  and  they  were  palaces 
Of  silent  happiness,  of  slumberous  ease: 
Long  years  of  misery  have  told  me  so. 
Aye,  thus  it  was  one  thousand  years  ago. 
One  thousand  years  !  —  Is  it  then  possible 
To  look  so  plainly  through  them  ?  to  dispel 
A  thousand  years  with  backward  glance 

sublime  ? 
To  breathe   away  as  'twere   all   scummy 

slime  33o 

From  off  a  crystal  pool,  to  see  its  deep, 
And  one's  own   image   from  the   bottom 

peep? 

Yes:  now  I  am  no  longer  wretched  thrall, 
My  long  captivity  and  meanings  all 
Are  but  a  slime,  a  thin-pervading  scum, 
The  which  I  breathe  away,  and  thronging 

come 

Like  things  of  yesterday  my  youthful  plea- 
sures: 

'  I  touch'd  no  lute,  I  sang  not,  trod  no 

measures : 

I  was  a  lonely  youth  on  desert  shores. 
My  sports   were  lonely,   'mid  continuous 

roars,  34o 


84 


ENDYMION 


And  craggy  isles,  and  sea-mew's  plaintive 

cry 

Plaining  discrepant  between  sea  and  sky. 
Dolphins  were  still  my  playmates;   shapes 

unseen 
Would  let  me  feel  their  scales  of  gold  and 

green, 

Nor  be  my  desolation;  and,  full  oft, 
When  a  dread  waterspout  had  rear'd  aloft 
Its  hungry  hugeness,  seeming  ready  ripe 
To  burst  with   hoarsest   thunderings,  and 

wipe 

My  life  away  like  a  vast  sponge  of  fate,  349 
Some   friendly   monster,   pitying    my   sad 

state, 

Has  dived  to  its  foundations,  gulf 'd  it  down, 
And  left  me  tossing  safely.    But  the  crown 
Of  all  my  life  was  utmost  quietude : 
More  did  I  love  to  lie  in  cavern  rude, 
Keeping  in  wait  whole  days  for  Neptune's 

voice, 

And  if  it  came  at  last,  hark,  and  rejoice  ! 
There  blush'd  no  summer  eve  but  I  would 

steer 

My  skiff  along  green  shelving  coasts,  to  hear 
The  shepherd's  pipe  come  clear  from  aery 

steep, 
Mingled  with  ceaseless    bleatings   of  his 

sheep:  360 

And  never  was  a  day  of  summer  shine, 
But  I  beheld  its  birth  upon  the  brine : 
For  I  would  watch  all  night  to  see  unfold 
Heaven's  gates,  and  -ZEthon  snort  his  morn- 
ing gold 

Wide  o'er  the  swelling  streams:  and  con- 
stantly 

At  brim  of  day-tide,  on  some  grassy  lea, 
My  nets  would  be  spread  out,  and  I  at  rest. 
The  poor  folk* of  the  sea-country  I  blest 
With  daily  boon  of  fish  most  delicate: 
They  knew   not  whence  this   bounty,  and 

elate  370 

Would   strew   sweet   flowers   on   a  sterile 

beach. 

<  Why  was  I  not  contented  ?     Wherefore 

reach 
At  things  which,  but  for  thee,  O  Latmian  ! 


Had  been  my  dreary  death  ?  Fool !  I  began- 
To  feel  distemper'd  longings:  to  desire 
The  utmost  privilege  that  ocean's  sire 
Could  grant  in  benediction :  to  be  free 
Of  all  his  kingdom.     Long  in  misery 
I  wasted,  ere  in  one  extremest  fit  379, 

I  plunged  for  life  or  death.    To  interknit 
One's  senses  with  so  dense  a  breathing  stuff 
Might  seem  a  work  of  pain;  so  not  enough 
Can  I  admire  how  crystal-smooth  it  felt, 
And  buoyant  round  my  limbs.     At  first  I 

dwelt 

Whole  days  and  days  in  sheer  astonishment ; 
Forgetful  utterly  of  self -intent; 
Moving  but  with  the  mighty  ebb  and  flow. 
Then,  like  a  new-fledged  bird  that  first  doth 

show 

His  spreaded  feathers  to  the  morrow  chill, 
I  tried  in  fear  the  pinions  of  my  will.      390 
'T  was  freedom  !  and  at  once  I  visited 
The  ceaseless  wonders  of  this  ocean-bed. 
No  need  to  tell  thee  of  them,  for  I  see 
That  thou  hast  been  a  witness  —  it  must  be 
For  these  I  know  thou   canst  not  feel  a 

drouth, 

By  the  melancholy  corners  of  that  mouth. 
S.o  I  will  in  my  story  straightway  pass 
To  more  immediate  matter.     Woe,  alas  ! 
That  love  should  be  my  bane  !     Ah,  Scylla 

fair! 

Why  did  poor  Glaucus  ever  —  ever  dare  4oo 
To  sue  thee  to  his  heart  ?     Kind  stranger- 
youth  ! 

I  loved  her  to  the  very  white  of  truth, 
And   she   would  not   conceive   it.     Timid 

thing  ! 

She  fled  me  swift  as  sea-bird  on  the  wing, 
Round  every  isle,  and  point,  and  promon- 
tory, 
From  where  large  Hercules  wound  up  his 

story 

Far  as  Egyptian  Nile.     My  passion  grew 
The  more,  the  more  I  saw  her  dainty  hue 
Gleam  delicately  through  the  azure  clear: 
Until  't  was  too  fierce  agony  to  bear;       410 
And  in  that  agony,  across  my  grief 
It  flash'd,  that  Circe  might  find  some  re- 
lief— 


BOOK  THIRD 


Cruel  enchantress  !     So  above  the  water 
I  rear'd  my  head,  and  look'd  for  Phoebus' 

daughter. 

^ZEjea's  isle  was  wondering  at  the  moon :  — 
It  seem'd  to  whirl  around  me,  and  a  swoon 
Left  me  dead-drifting  to  that  fatal  power. 

*  When  I  awoke,   't  was  in  a  twilight 

bower; 
Just  when  the  light  of  morn,  with  hum  of 

bees, 
Stole   through   its   verdurous    matting   of 

fresh  trees.  420 

How  sweet,  and  sweeter !  for  I  heard  a 

lyre, 

And  over  it  a  sighing  voice  expire. 
It  ceased  —  I  caught  light  footsteps;  and 

anon 

The  fairest  face  that  morn  e'er  look'd  upon 
Push'd  through  a  screen  of  roses.  Starry 

Jove  ! 
With  tears,  and  smiles,  and  honey-words 

she  wove 
A  net  whose  thraldom  was  more  bliss  than 

all 
The  range  of  flower'd  Elysium.     Thus  did 

fall 
The   dew  of  her  rich  speech:  "Ah !  art 

awake  ? 

0  let   me   hear   thee   speak,   for   Cupid's 

sake !  43o 

1  am  so  oppress'd  with  joy  !    Why,  I  have 

shed 
An  urn  of  tears,  as  though  thou  wert  cold 

dead; 

And  now  I  find  thee  living,  I  will  pour 
From  these  devoted  eyes  their  silver  store, 
Until  exhausted  of  the  latest  drop, 
So  it  will  pleasure  thee,  and  force   thee 

stop 

Here,  that  I  too  may  live:  but  if  beyond 
Such  cool  and  sorrowful  offerings,  thou  art 

fond 

Of  soothing  warmth,  of  dalliance  supreme ; 
If  thou  art  ripe  to  taste  a  long  love-dream ; 
If  smiles,  if  dimples,  tongues  for  ardour 

mute,  44i 

Hang  in  thy  vision  like  a  tempting  fruit, 


0  let  me  pluck  it  for  thee  ! "    Thus  she 

link'd 

Her  charming  syllables,  till  indistinct 
Their  music   came  to  my  o'er-sweeten'd 

soul; 

And  then  she  hover'd  over  me,  and  stole 
So  near,  that  if  no  nearer  it  had  been 
This  f urrow'd  visage  thou  hadst  never  seen. 

'  Young  man  of  Latmos  !  thus  particu- 
lar 

Am  I,  that  thou  may'st  plainly  see  how 
far  45o 

This  fierce  temptation  went:  and  thou 
may'st  not 

Exclaim,  How,  then,  was  Scylla  quite  for- 
got ? 

*  Who  could  resist  ?  Who  in  this  uni- 
verse ? 

She  did  so  breathe  ambrosia;  so  immerse 
My  fine  existence  in  a  golden  clime. 
She  took  me  like  a  child  of  suckling  time, 
And   cradled    me    in    roses.      Thus    con- 

demn'd, 

The  current  of  my  former  life  was  stemm'd, 
And  to  this  arbitrary  queen  of  sense 

1  bow'd  a  tranced  vassal:  nor  would  thence 
Have  moved,  even  though  Amphion's  harp 

had  woo'd  46i 

Me  back  to  Scylla  o'er  the  billows  rude. 
For  as  Apollo  each  eve  doth  devise 
A  new  apparelling  for  western  skies; 
So  every  eve,  nay,  every  spendthrift  hour 
Shed     balmy    consciousness    within     that 

bower. 

And  I  was  free  of  haunts  umbrageous; 
Could  wander  in  the  mazy  forest-house 
Of  squirrels,  foxes  shy,  and  antler'd  deer, 
And    birds   from   coverts    innermost   and 
drear  47c 

Warbling   for   very    joy   mellifluous    sor- 
row — 
To  me  new-born  delights  ! 

*  Now  let  me  borrow, 

For  moments  few,  a  temperament  as  stern 
As  Pluto's  sceptre,  that  my  words  not  burn 


86 


ENDYMION 


These  uttering  lips,  while  I  in  calm  speech 

tell 
How  specious  heaven  was  changed  to  real 

hell. 

'One  inorn  she  left  me  sleeping:  half 

awake 
I  sought  for  her  smooth  arms  and  lips,  to 

slake 

My  greedy  thirst  with  nectarous  camel- 
draughts; 
But  she  was  gone.     Whereat  the  barbed 

shafts  480 

Of  disappointment  stuck  in  me  so  sore, 
That  out  I  ran  and  search'd  the  forest  o'er. 
Wandering  about  in  pine  and  cedar  gloom 
Damp  awe  assail'd  me;  for  there  'gan  to 

boom 

A  sound  of  moan,  an  agony  of  sound, 
Sepulchral  from  the  distance  all  around. 
Then  came  a  conquering  earth-thunder,  and 

rumbled 
That  fierce  complain  to  silence:   while  I 

stumbled 

Down  a  precipitous  path,  as  if  impell'd. 
I  came    to  a    dark    valley.  —  Groanings 

swell'd  490 

Poisonous  about  my  ears,  and  louder  grew, 
The  nearer  I  approach'd  a  flame's  gaunt 

blue, 
That  glared  before  me  through  a  thorny 

brake. 

This  fire,  like  the  eye  of  gordian  snake, 
Bewitch'd  me  towards;   and  I  soon  was 

near 

A  sight  too  fearful  for  the  feel  of  fear: 
In  thicket  hid  I  cursed  the  haggard  scene  — 
The  banquet  of  my  arms,  my  arbour  queen, 
Seated  upon  an  uptorn  forest  root; 
And  all  around  her  shapes,  wizard  and 

brute,  500 

Laughing,  and  wailing,  grovelling,  serpent- 
ing, 
Showing  tooth,  tusk,  and  venom-bag,  and 

sting ! 

O  such  deformities  !  old  Charon's  self, 
Should  he  give  up  awhile  his  penny  pelf, 
And  take  a  dream  'mong  rushes  Stygian, 


It  could  not  be  so  fantasied.     Fierce,  wan, 
And  tyrannizing  was  the  lady's  look, 
As  over  them  a  gnarled  staff  she  shook. 
Ofttimes  upon  the  sudden  she  laugh'd  out, 
And  from  a  basket  emptied  to  the  rout   510 
Clusters  of  grapes,  the  which  they  raven'd 

quick 
And  roar'd  for  more  ;•  with  many  a  hungry 

lick 

About  their  shaggy  jaws.     Avenging,  slow, 
Anon  she  took  a  branch  of  mistletoe, 
And  emptied  on  't  a  black  dull-gurgling 

phial: 
Groan'd  one   and  all,  as  if  some  piercing 

trial 

Was  sharpening  for  their  pitiable  bones. 
She  lifted  up  the  charm:  appealing  groans 
From  their  poor  breasts  went  sueing  to  her 

ear 

In  vain;  remorseless  as  an  infant's  bier  520 
She  whisk'd  against  their  eyes   the  sooty 

oil. 

Whereat  was  heard  a  noise  of  painful  toil, 
Increasing  gradual  to  a  tempest  rage, 
Shrieks,  yells,  and  groans  of   torture-pil- 
grimage; 

Until  their  grieved  bodies  'gan  to  bloat 
And  puff  from   the   tail's   end   to   stifled 

throat: 

Then  was  appalling  silence:  then  a  sight 
More  wildering  than  all  that  hoarse  af- 
fright; 
For  the   whole  herd,  as  by  a   whirlwind 

writhen, 
Went  through  the  dismal  air  like  one  huge 

Python  530 

Antagonizing  Boreas,  —  and  so  vanish'd. 
Yet  there  was  not  a  breath  of  wind:  she 

banish'd 
These  phantoms  with  a  nod.    Lo  !  from  the 

dark 
Came   waggish    fauns,   and   nymphs,   and 

satyrs  stark, 

With  dancing  and  loud  revelry,  —  and  went 
Swifter  than  centaurs  after  rapine  bent.  — 
Sighing  an  elephant  appear'd  and  bow'd 
Before  the  fierce  witch,  speaking  thus  aloud 
In  human  accent:  "  Potent  goddess  !  chief 


BOOK  THIRD 


87 


Of  pains  resistless  !  make  my  being  brief, 
Or  let  me  from  this  heavy  prison  fly:       541 
Or  give  me  to  the  air,  or  let  me  die  ! 
I  sue  not  for  my  happy  crown  again; 
I  sue  not  for  my  phalanx  on  the  plain; 
I  sue  not  for  my  lone,  my  widow'd  wife : 
I  sue  not  for  my  ruddy  drops  of  life, 
My  children  fair,  my  lovely  girls  and  boys  ! 
I  will  forget  them;  I  will  pass  these  joys; 
Ask  nought  so  heavenward,  so  too  —  too 

high: 

Only  I  pray,  as  fairest  boon,  to  die,          550 
Or  be  deliver'd  from  this  cumbrous  flesh, 
From  this  gross,  detestable,  filthy  mesh, 
And  merely  given  to  the  cold  bleak  air. 
Have   mercy,   Goddess !     Circe,  feel    my 

prayer  ! " 

'That  curst  magician's  name  fell  icy  numb 
Upon   my   wild    conjecturing:    truth  had 

come 

Naked  and  sabre-like  against  my  heart. 
I  saw  a  fury  whetting  a  death-dart; 
And    my   slain    spirit,   overwrought   with 

fright, 

Fainted  away  in  that  dark  lair  of  night.  560 
Think,  my  deliverer,  how  desolate 
My  waking  must  have  been !  disgust,  and 

hate, 

And  terrors  manifold  divided  me 
A  spoil  amongst  them.     I  prepared  to  flee 
Into  the  dungeon  core  of  that  wild  wood: 
I  fled  three  days  —  when  lo  !  before  me 

stood 

Glaring  the  angry  witch.     O  Dis,  even  now, 
A  clammy  dew  is  beading  on  my  brow, 
At  mere  remembering  her  pale  laugh,  and 

curse. 
"  Ha  !  ha  !     Sir  Dainty  !  there  must  be  a 

nurse  570 

Made  of  rose-leaves  and  thistle-down,  ex- 
press, 
To  cradle  thee  my  sweet,  and  lull  thee: 

yes, 

I  am  too  flinty-hard  for  thy  nice  touch: 
My  tenderest  squeeze  is  but  a  giant's  clutch. 
So,  fairy-thing,  it  shall  have  lullabies 
Unheard  of  yet ;  and  it  shall  still  its  cries 


Upon  some  breast  more  lily-feminine. 
Oh,  no  —  it  shall  not  pine,  and  pine,  and 

pine 
More  than  one   pretty,  trifling  thousand 

years ; 
And  then  't  were   pity,   but  fate's   gentle 

shears  580 

Cut  short  its  immortality.     Sea-flirt ! 
Young  dove  of  the  waters  !  truly  I  '11  not 

hurt 

One  hair  of  thine :  see  how  I  weep  and  sigh, 
That  our  heart-broken  parting  is  so  nigh. 
And  must  we  part  ?     Ah,  yes,  it  must  be  so. 
Yet  ere  thou  leavest  me  in  utter  woe, 
Let  me  sob  over  thee  my  last  adieus, 
And  speak  a  blessing:  Mark  me  !  thou  hast 

thews 

Immortal,  for  thou  art  of  heavenly  race: 
But  such  a  love  is  mine,  that  here  I  chase 
Eternally  away  from  thee  all  bloom         591 
Of  youth,  and  destine  thee  towards  a  tomb. 
Hence   shalt  thou  quickly  to  the  watery 

vast; 

And  there,  ere  many  days  be  overpast, 
Disabled  age  shall   seize  thee;  and  even 

then 

Thou  shalt  not  go  the  way  of  aged  men; 
But  live  and  wither,  cripple  and  still  breathe 
Ten  hundred  years:  which  gone,  I  then  be- 
queath 

Thy  fragile  bones  to  unknown  burial. 
Adieu,  sweet  love,  adieu  !  "  —  As  shot  stars 

fall,  600 

She   fled   ere   I  could  groan    for   mercy. 

Stung 

And  poisoned  was  my  spirit:  despair  sung 
A  war-song  of  defiance  'gainst  all  hell. 
A  hand  was  at  my  shoulder  to  compel 
My  sullen  steps;  another  'fore  my  eyes 
Moved   on  with   pointed  finger.      In   this 

guise 

Enforced,  at  the  last  by  ocean's  foam 
I  found  me;  by  my  fresh,  my  native  home. 
Its  tempering  coolness,  to  my  life  akin, 
Came  salutary  as  1  waded  in;  610 

And,  with  a  blind  voluptuous  rage,  I  gave 
Battle  to  the    swollen    billow-ridge,   and 

drave 


88 


ENDYMION 


Large  froth  before  me,  while  there  yet 
remain'd 

Hale  strength,  nor  from  my  bones  all  mar- 
row drain'd. 

*  Young  lover,  I  must  weep  —  such  hell- 
ish spite 

With  dry  cheek  who  can  tell?  While 
thus  my  might 

Proving  upon  this  element,  dismay'd, 

Upon  a  dead  thing's  face  my  hand  I  laid; 

I  look'd  —  'twas  Scylla  !  Cursed,  cursed 
Circe  ! 

0  vulture-witch,  hast  never  heard  of  mercy  ? 
Could  not  thy  harshest  vengeance  be  con- 
tent, 621 

But  thou  must  nip  this  tender  innocent 

Because  I  loved  her  ?  —  Cold,  O  cold  in- 
deed 

Were  her  fair  limbs,  and  like  a  common 
weed 

The  sea-swell  took  her  hair.  Dead  as  she 
was 

1  clung  about  her  waist,  nor  ceased  to  pass 
Fleet   as    an   arrow   through    unfathom'd 

brine, 

Until  there  shone  a  fabric  crystalline, 

Ribb'd  and  inlaid  with  coral,  pebble,  and 
pearl. 

Headlong  I  darted ;  at  one  eager  swirl    630 

Gain'd  its  bright  portal,  enter'd,  and  be- 
hold ! 

'T  was  vast,  and  desolate,  and  icy-cold; 

And  all  around  —  But  wherefore  this  to 
thee 

Who  in  few  minutes  more  thyself  shalt 
see?  — 

I  left  poor  Scylla  in  a  niche  and  fled. 

My  fever'd  parchings  up,  my  scathing 
dread 

Met  palsy  half  way:  soon  these  limbs  be- 
came 

Gaunt,  wither'd,  sapless,  feeble,  crainp'd, 
and  lame. 

'  Now  let  me  pass  a  cruel,  cruel  space, 
Without   one   hope,  without   one   faintest 
trace  640 


Of  mitigation,  or  redeeming  bubble 

Of  colour' d  phantasy:  for  I  fear  'twould 

trouble 

Thy  brain  to  loss  of  reason:  and  next  tell 
How  a  restoring  chance  came  down  to  quell 
One  half  of  the  witch  in  me. 

1  On  a  day, 

Sitting  upon  a  rock  above  the  spray, 
I  saw  grow  up  from  the  horizon's  brink 
A  gallant  vessel:  soon  she  seem'd  to  sink 
Away  from  me  again,  as  though  her  course 
Had  been  resumed  in  spite  of   hindering 
force  —  650 

So  vanish 'd:  and  not  long,  before  arose 
Dark  clouds,  and  muttering  of  winds  mo- 
rose. 

Old  JEolus  would  stifle  his  mad  spleen, 
But  could   not;  therefore,  all  the  billows 

green 
Toss'd   up   the   silver   spume   against  the 

clouds. 
The  tempest   came:   I   saw  that  vessel's 

shrouds 

In  perilous  bustle;  while  upon  the  deck 
Stood  trembling  creatures.     I  beheld  the 

wreck; 

The  final  gulfing;  the  poor  struggling  souls; 
I   heard   their   cries   amid   loud   thunder- 
rolls.  660 

0  they  had  all  been  saved  but  crazed  eld 
Annull'd  my  vigorous  cravings;  and  thus 

quell'd 
And  curb'd,  think  on  't,  O  Latmian  !  did  I 

sit 

.Writhing  with  pity,  and  a  cursing  fit 
Against  that  hell-born  Circe.     The   crew 

had  gone, 

By  one  and  one,  to  pale  oblivion; 
And  I  was  gazing  on  the  surges  prone, 
With  many  a  scalding  tear,  and  many  a 

groan, 
When  at  my  feet  emerged  an  old  man's 

hand, 
Grasping  this  scroll,  and  this  same  slender 

wand.  670 

1  knelt  with  pain  —  reach'd  out  my  hand 

—  had  grasp'd 


BOOK  THIRD 


89 


These  treasures  —  touch'd  the  knuckles  — 

they  un  clasp 'd — 

I  caught  a  finger:  but  the  downward  weight 
O'erpower'd   me  — it  sank.        Then   'gan 

abate 
The  storm,  and  through  chill  aguish  gloom 

outburst 

The  comfortable  sun.     I  was  athirst 
To  search  the  book,  and  in  the  warming 

air 

Parted  its  dripping  leaves  with  eager  care. 
Strange  matters  did  it  treat  of,  and  drew 

on 
My  soul  page   after  page,  till  well  nigh 

won  680 

Into  forge tf illness;  when,  stupefied, 
I  read  these  words,  and  read  again,  and 

tried 
My  eyes  against  the   heavens,   and   read 

again. 

O  what  a  load  of  misery  and  pain 
Each  Atlas-line  bore  off  !  —  a  shine  of  hope 
Came   gold   around   me,   cheering   me   to 

cope 

Strenuous  with  hellish  tyranny.     Attend  ! 
For  thou  hast  brought  their  promise  to  an 

end.' 

In  the  wide  sea  there  lives  a  forlorn  wretch, 
Doomed  with  enfeebled  carcase  to  outstretch  690 
His  loath'd  existence  through  ten  centuries. 
And  then  to  die  alone.     Who  can  devise 
A  total  opposition  ?    No  one.     So 
One  million  times  ocean  must  ebb  and  flow, 
And  he  oppressed.     Yet  he  shall  not  die, 
These  things  accomplished:  —  If  he  utterly 
Scans  all  the  depths  of  magic,  and  expounds 
The  meanings  of  all  motions,  shapes,  and 

sounds  • 

If  he  explores  all  forms  and  substances 
Straight  homeward  to  their  symbol-essences  ; 
He  shall  not  die.     Moreover,  and  in  chief,   701 
He  must  pursue  this  task  of  joy  and  grief 
Most  piously  •  —  all  lovers  tempest-tost, 
And  in  the  savage  overwhelming  lost, 
He  shall  deposit  side  by  side,  until 
Time's  creeping  shall  the  dreary  space  fulfil: 
Which  done,  and  all  these  labours  ripened, 


A  youth,  by  heavenly  power  loved  and  led,  • 
Shall  stand  before  him  ;  whom  he  shall  direct 
How  to  consummate  all.     The  youth  elect  710 
Must    do    the    thing,   or    both  will  be   de- 
stroy'd.  — 

*  Then,'  cried  the  young  Endymion,  over- 
joy'd, 

1  We  are  twin  brothers  in  this  destiny  ! 

Say,  I  entreat  thee,  what  achievement  high 

Is,  in  this  restless  world,  for  me  reserved. 

What !  if  from  thee  my  wandering  feet 
had  swerved, 

Had  we  both  perish'd  ? '  —  <  Look  ! '  the 
sage  replied, 

'  Dost  thou  not  mark  a  gleaming  through 
the  tide, 

Of  divers  brilliances  ?  't  is  the  edifice 

I  told  thee  of,  where  lovely  Scylla  lies;  720 

And  where  I  have  enshrined  piously 

All  lovers,  whom  fell  storms  have  doom'd 
to  die 

Throughout  my  bondage.'  Thus  discours- 
ing, on 

They  went  till  unobscured  the  porches 
shone; 

Which  hurryingly  they  gain'd,  and  enter'd 
straight. 

Sure  never  since  king  Neptune  held  his 
state 

Was  seen  such  wonder  underneath  the 
stars. 

Turn  to  some  level  plain  where  haughty 
Mars 

Has  legion'd  all  his  battle;  and  behold 

How  every  soldier,  with  firm  foot,  doth 
hold  730 

His  even  breast :  see,  many  steeled  squares, 

And  rigid  ranks  of  iron  —  whence  who 
dares 

One  step  ?     Imagine  further,  line  by  line, 

These  warrior  thousands  on  the  field  su- 
pine :  — 

So  in  that  crystal  place,  in  silent  rows, 

Poor  lovers  lay  at  rest  from  joys  and 
woes.  — 

The  stranger  from  the  mountains,  breath- 
less, traced 


9° 


ENDYMION 


Such  thousands  of  shut  eyes  in  order 
placed; 

Such  ranges  of  white  feet,  and  patient  lips 

All  ruddy,  —  for  here  death  no  blossom 
nips.  740 

He  mark'd  their  brows  and  foreheads;  saw 
their  hair 

Put  sleekly  on  one  side  with  nicest  care; 

And  each  one's  gentle  wrists,  with  rever- 
ence, 

Put  cross-wise  to  its  heart. 

*  Let  us  commence,' 
Whisper'd  the  guide,  stuttering  with  joy, 

*  even  now.' 

He  spake,  and,  trembling  like  an  aspen- 
bough, 

Began  to  tear  his  scroll  in  pieces  small, 
Uttering  the  while  some   mumblings  fu- 
neral. 

He  tore  it  into  pieces  small  as  snow 
That  drifts  unf eather'd  when  bleak  north- 
erns blow;  750 
And  having  done  it,  took  his  dark  blue 

cloak 

And  bound  it  round  Endymion:  then  struck 
His    wand    against   the   empty  air  times 

nine. — 
*  What  more  there  is  to  do,  young  man,  is 

thine: 

But  first  a  little  patience;  first  undo 
This  tangled  thread,  and  wind  it  to  a  clue. 
Ah,  gentle  !  't  is  as  weak  as  spider's  skein ; 
And  shouldst  thou  break  it  —  What,  is  it 

done  so  clean  ? 

A  power  overshadows  thee  !     Oh,  brave  ! 
The  spite  of  hell  is  tumbling  to  its  grave. 
Here  is  a  shell;  't  is  pearly  blank  to  me,   761 
Nor  mark'd  with  any  sign  or  charactery  — 
Canst  thou  read  aught  ?     O  read  for  pity's 

sake! 
Olympus !    we  are  safe !      Now,   Carian, 

break 

This  wand  against  yon  lyre  on  the  pedes- 
tal.' 

'Twas  done:  and  straight  with   sudden 
swell  and  fall 


Sweet  music  breathed  her  soul  away,  and 

sigh'd 

A  lullaby  to  silence.  —  '  Youth  !  now  strew 
These  minced  leaves  on  me,  and  passing 

through 

Those    files    of    dead,    scatter    the    same 

around,  770 

And  thou  wilt  see  the  issue.'  —  'Mid  the 

sound 

Of  flutes  and  viols,  ravishing  his  heart, 
Endymion  from  Glaucus  stood  apart, 
And  scatter'd  in  his  face  some  fragments 

light. 

How  lightning-swift  the  change  !  a  youth- 
ful wight 

Smiling  beneath  a  coral  diadem, 
Out-sparkling  sudden  like  an  upturn'd  gem, 
Appear'd,   and,  stepping    to   a  beauteous 

corse, 
Kneel'd  down  beside  it,  and  with  tenderest 

force 

Press'd  its   cold    hand,   and  wept,  —  and 
Scylla  sigh'd  !  78o 

Endymion,  with  quick  hand,  the  charm  ap- 
plied — 

The  nymph  arose:  he  left  them  to  their  joy, 
And  onward  went  upon  his  high  employ, 
Showering   those   powerful    fragments   on 

the  dead. 

And,  as  he  pass'd,  each  lifted  up  its  head, 
As  doth  a  flower  at  Apollo's  touch. 
Death  felt   it   to  his   inwards:    'twas  too 

much: 

Death  fell  a-weeping  in  his  charnel-house. 
The  Latmian  persevered  along,  and  thus 
All  were  reanimated.     There  arose          790 
A  noise  of  harmony,  pulses  and  throes 
Of  gladness  in  the  air  —  while  many,  who 
Had  died  in  mutual  arms  devout  and  true, 
Sprang  to  each  other  madly;  and  the  rest 
Felt  a  high  certainty  of  being  blest. 
They   gazed   upon   Endymion.      Enchant- 
ment 
Grew  drunken,  and  would  have  its  head 

and  bent. 

Delicious  symphonies,  like  airy  flowers, 
Budded,  and  swell'd,  and,  full-blown,  shed 
full  showers 


BOOK   THIRD 


91 


Of    light,   soft,    unseen   leaves   of   sounds 
divine.  800 

The  two  deliverers  tasted  a  pure  wine 
Of  happiness,  from  fairy  press  oozed  out. 
Speechless  they  eyed  each  other,  and  about 
The  fair  assembly  wandered  to  and  fro, 
Distracted  with  the  richest  overflow 
Of  joy  that  ever  pour'd  from  heaven. 

<  Away  ! ' 

Shouted  the  new  born  god;   'Follow,  and 

pay 

Our  piety  to  Neptunus  supreme  ! '  — 
Then   Scylla,  blushing   sweetly   from   her 

dream, 

They  led  on  first,  bent  to  her  meek  sur- 
prise, 810 
Through  portal  columns  of  a  giant  size 
Into  the  vaulted,  boundless  emerald. 
Joyous  all  follow'd,  as  the  leader  call'd, 
Down  marble  steps;  pouring  as  easily 
As    hour-glass    sand  —  and    fast,   as    you 


Swallows  obeying  the  south  summer's  call, 
Or  swans  upon  a  gentle  waterfall. 

Thus  went  that  beautiful  multitude,  nor 

far, 

Ere  from  among  some  rocks  of  glittering 
spar,  819 

Just  within  ken,  they  saw  descending  thick 
Another  multitude.     Whereat  more  quick 
Moved  either  host.     On  a  wide  sand  they 

met, 

And  of  those  numbers  every  eye  was  wet; 
For  each  their   old   love  found.     A  mur- 
muring rose, 
Like   what  was   never  heard    in    all  the 

throes 

Of  wind  and  waters:  'tis  past  human  wit 
To  tell;  't  is  dizziness  to  think  of  it. 

This   mighty   consummation  made,  the 

host 
Moved  on  for  many  a  league;  and  gain'd 

and  lost 
Huge     sea-marks;    van  ward    swelling    in 

array,  830 


And  from  the  rear  diminishing  away,  — 
Till  a  faint  dawn  surprised  them.    Glaucus 

cried, 

'  Behold  !  behold,  the  palace  of  his  pride  ! 
God  Neptune's   palaces.'     With  noise   in- 
creased, 

They  shoulder'd  on  towards  that  brighten- 
ing east. 

At  every  onward  step  proud  domes  arose 
In  prospect,  —  diamond  gleams  and  golden 

glows 

Of  amber  'gainst  their  faces  levelling. 
Joyous,  and  many  as  the  leaves  in  spring, 
Still  onward;  still  the  splendour  gradual 
swell'd.  840 

Rich  opal  domes  were  seen,  on  high  upheld 
By  jasper    pillars,  letting  through    their 

shafts 

A  blush  of  coral.    Copious  wonder-draughts 
Each  gazer  drank;  and  deeper  drank  more 

near: 
For  what  poor  mortals  fragment  up,  as 

mere 

As  marble  was  there  lavish,  to  the  vast 
Of  one  fair  palace,  that  far,  far  surpass'd, 
Even  for  common  bulk,  those  olden  three, 
Memphis,  and  Babylon,  and  Nineveh. 

As  large,  as  bright,  as  colour'd  as  the 

bow  850 

Of  Iris,  when  unfading  it  doth  show 
Beyond  a  silvery  shower,  was  the  arch 
Through  which  this  Paphian  army  took  its 

march, 

Into  the  outer  courts  of  Neptune's  state  : 
Whence   could  be   seen,  direct,  a  golden 

gate, 
To  which  the  leaders  sped;  but  not  half 

raught 

Ere  it  burst  open  swift  as  fairy  thought, 
And  made  those   dazzled   thousands  veil 

their  eyes 

Like  callow  eagles  at  the  first  sunrise. 
Soon  with  an  eagle  nativeness  their  gaze   860 
Ripe  from  hue-golden  swoons  took  all  the 

blaze, 
And  then,  behold  !  large  Neptune  on  his 

throne 


ENDYMION 


Of  emerald  deep:  yet  not  exalt  alone; 

At  his  right  hand  stood  winged  Love,  and  on 

His  left  sat  smiling  Beauty's  paragon. 

Far  as  the  mariner  on  highest  mast 
Can  see  all  round  upon  the  calmed  vast, 
So  wide  was  Neptune's  hall:  and  as  the  blue 
Doth  vault  the  waters,  so  the  waters  drew 
Their  doming  curtains,  high,  magnificent,  870 
Awed  from  the  throne  aloof;  —  and  when 

storm  rent 
Disclosed  the  thunder-gloomings  in  Jove's 

air; 

But  soothed  as  now,  flash'd  sudden  every- 
where, 

Noiseless,  sub-marine  cloudlets,  glittering 
Death  to  a  human  eye :  for  there  did  spring 
From  natural  west,  and  east,  and  south,  and 

north, 

A  light  as  of  four  sunsets,  blazing  forth 
A  gold-green  zenith   'bove  the  Sea-God's 

head. 

Of  lucid  depth  the  floor,  and  far  outspread 
As    breezeless    lake,    on  which   the    slim 

canoe  880 

Of  f  eather'd  Indian  darts  about,  as  through 
The  delicatest  air:  air  verily, 
But  for  the  portraiture  of  clouds  and  sky: 
This  palace  floor  breath-air,  —  but  for  the 

amaze 
Of   deep-seen   wonders    motionless,  —  and 

blaze 

Of  the  dome  pomp,  reflected  in  extremes, 
Globing  a  golden  sphere. 

They  stood  in  dreams 

Till  Triton  blew  his  horn.    The  palace  rang ; 

The  Nereids  danced;  the  Sirens  faintly 
sang; 

And  the  great  Sea-King  bow'd  his  dripping 
head.  890 

Then  Love  took  wing,  and  from  his  pinions 
shed 

On  all  the  multitude  a  nectarous  dew. 

The  ooze-born  Goddess  beckoned  and  drew 

Fair  Scylla  and  her  guides  to  conference; 

And  when  they  reach'd  the  throned  emi- 
nence 


She  kiss'd  the   sea-nymph's   cheek,  —  who 

sat  her  down 
A-toying  with  the  doves.    Then,  — « Mighty 

crown 
And   sceptre   of    this    kingdom  ! '    Venus 

said, 

'  Thy  vows  were  on  a  time  to  Nais  paid: 
Behold  ! '  —  Two  copious  tear-drops  instant 

fell  900 

From  the  God's  large  eyes;  he  smiled  de- 
lectable, 

And  over  Glaucus  held  his  blessing  hands.  — 
1  Endymion  !      Ah  !  still  wandering  in  the 

bands 
Of  love  ?     Now  this  is  cruel.      Since   the 

hour 

I  met  thee  in  earth's  bosom,  all  my  power 
Have  I  put  forth  to  serve  thee.     What,  not 

yet 

Escaped  from  dull  mortality's  harsh  net  ? 
A  little  patience,  youth  !  't  will  not  be  long, 
Or  I  am  skilless  quite :  an  idle  tongue, 
A  humid  eye,  and  steps  luxurious,  910 

Where   these   are   new   and    strange,   are 

ominous. 
Aye,  I   have    seen   these    signs  in  one  of 

heaven, 
When  others  were  all  blind;  and  were  I 

given 

To  utter  secrets,  haply  I  might  say 
Some  pleasant  words:  —  but  Love  will  have 

his  day. 

So  wait  awhile  expectant.     Pr'ythee  soon, 
Even  in  the  passing  of  thine  honey-moon, 
Visit  thou  my  Cytherea:  thou  wilt  find 
Cupid  well-natured,  my  Adonis  kind; 
And  pray  persuade  with  thee  —    Ah,  I  have 

done,  920 

All  blisses  be  upon  thee,  my  sweet  son  ! '  — 
Thus  the  fair  goddess:  while  Endymion 
Knelt  to  receive  those  accents  halcyon. 

Meantime  a  glorious  revelry  began 
Before  the  Water-Monarch.     Nectar  ran 
In   courteous    fountains   to   all   cups   out- 
reach'd; 

And  plunder'd  vines,  teeming  exhaustless, 
pleach'd 


BOOK   THIRD 


93 


New  growth  about  each  shell  and  pendent 

lyre; 

The  which,  in  disentangling  for  their  fire, 
PulPd  down  fresh  foliage  and  coverture   930 
For  dainty  toying.     Cupid,  empire-sure, 
Flutter'd  and  laugh'd,  and  oft-times  through 

the  throng 
Made  a  delighted  way.     Then  dance,  and 

song, 
And  garlanding,  grew  wild;  and  pleasure 

reign'd. 

In  harmless  tendril  they  each  other  chain'd, 
And  strove  who  should  be  smother'd  deep- 
est in 
Fresh  crush  of  leaves. 

O  't  is  a  very  sin 

For  one  so  weak  to  venture  his  poor  verse 
In  such  a  place  as  this.     O  do  not  curse,   939 
High  Muses  !  let  him  hurry  to  the  ending. 

All  suddenly  were  silent.    A  soft  blend- 
ing 

Of  dulcet  instruments  came  charmingly; 
And  then  a  hymn. 

1  King  of  the  stormy  sea  ! 
Brother  of  Jove,  and  co-inheritor 
Of  elements  !     Eternally  before 
Thee  the  waves  awful  bow.     Fast,  stubborn 

rock, 

At  thy  f  ear'd  trident  shrinking,  doth  unlock 
Its  deep  foundations,  hissing  into  foam. 
All  mountain-rivers,  lost  in  the  wide  home 
Of  thy  capacious  bosom,  ever  flow.  950 

Thou  frownest,  and  old  JEolus  thy  foe 
Skulks  to  his  cavern,  'mid  the  gruff  com- 
plaint 
Of  all  his  rebel  tempests.      Dark  clouds 

faint 

When,  from  thy  diadem,  a  silver  gleam 
Slants   over  blue    dominion.      Thy  bright 

team 

Gulfs  in  the  morning  light,  and  scuds  along 
To  bring  thee  nearer  to  that  golden  song 
Apollo  singeth,  while  his  chariot 
Waits  at  the  doors  of  heaven.     Thou  art 
not 


For  scenes  like  this:  an  empire  stern  hast 
thou;  960 

And  it  hath  furrow'd  that  large  front:  yet 
now, 

As  newly  come  of  heaven,  dost  thou  sit 

To  blend  and  interknit 

Subdued  majesty  with  this  glad  time. 

O  shell-borne  King  sublime  ! 

We  lay  our  hearts  before  thee  evermore  — 

We  sing,  and  we  adore  ! 

'  Breathe  softly,  flutes; 
Be  tender  of  your   strings,   ye    soothing 

lutes; 
Nor  be  the   trumpet  heard !   0   vain,   O 

vain;  970 

Not  flowers  budding  in  an  April  rain, 
Nor  breath  of  sleeping  dove,  nor  river's 

flow, — 
No,  nor  the  JEolian  twang  of  Love's  own 

bow, 

Can  mingle  music  fit  for  the  soft  ear 
Of  goddess  Cytherea  ! 
Yet  deign,  white  Queen  of  Beauty,  thy  fair 

eyes 
On  our  soul's  sacrifice. 

«  Bright-winged  Child ! 

Who  has  another  care  when  thou  hast 
smiled  ? 

Unfortunates  on  earth,  we  see  at  last      980 

All  death-shadows,  and  glooms  that  over- 
cast 

Our  spirits,  fann'd  away  by  thy  light  pin- 
ions. 

O  sweetest  essence  !  sweetest  of  all  min- 
ions ! 

God  of  warm  pulses,  and  dishevell'd  hair, 

And  panting  bosoms  bare  ! 

Dear  unseen  light  in  darkness  !  eclipser 

Of  light  in  light !  delicious  poisoner  ! 

Thy  venom'd  goblet  will  we  quaff  until 

We  fill  —  we  fill !  989 

And  by  thy  Mother's  lips ' 

Was  heard  no  more 

For  clamour,  when  the  golden  palace  door 
Open'd  again,  and  from  without,  in  shone 


94 


ENDYMION 


A  new  magnificence.     On  oozy  throne 
Smooth-moving  came  Oceanus  the  old, 
To  take  a  latest  glimpse  at  his  sheepfold, 
Before  he  went  into  his  quiet  cave 
To  muse  for  ever  —     Then  a  lucid  wave, 
Scoop'd  from  its  trembling  sisters  of  mid- 
sea, 

Afloat,  and  pillowing  up  the  majesty 
Of  Doris,  and  the  JEgean  seer,  her  spouse  — 
Next,  on  a  dolphin,  clad  in  laurel  boughs, 
Theban  Amphion  leaning  on  his  lute:     1002 
His  fingers  went  across  it  —  All  were  mute 
To  gaze  on  Amphitrite,  queen  of  pearls, 
And  Thetis  pearly  too.  — 

The  palace  whirls 

Around  giddy  Endymion;  seeing  he 
Was  there  far  strayed  from  mortality. 
He  could  not  bear  it  —  shut  his  eyes  in 

vain; 

Imagination  gave  a  dizzier  pain. 
'  O  I  shall  die  !  sweet  Venus,  be  my  stay  ! 
Where    is    my    lovely    mistress  ?     Well- 
away  !  10 1 1 
I  die  —  I    hear    her    voice  —  I    feel  my 

wing  — ' 
At  Neptune's  feet    he    sank.     A  sudden 

ring 

Of  Nereids  were  about  him,  in  kind  strife 
To  usher  back  his  spirit  into  life: 
But  still  he  slept.    At  last  they  interwove 
Their  cradling  arms,  and  purposed  to  con- 
vey 
Towards  a  crystal  bower  far  away. 

Lo  !  while  slow  carried  through  the  pity- 
ing crowd, 

To  his  inward  senses  these  words  spake 
aloud;  1020 

Written  in  starlight  on  the  dark  above: 

4  Dearest  Endymion  I  my  entire  love  ! 

How  have  I  dwelt  in  fear  of  fate ;  '<  is 
done  — 

Immortal  bliss  for  me  too  hast  thou  won. 

Arise  then !  for  the  hen  -  dove  shall  not 
hatch 

Her  ready  eggs,  before  I  'II  kissing  snatch 

Thee  into  endless  heaven.     Awake!  awake!' 


The  youth  at  once  arose:  a  placid  lake 
Came  quiet  to  his  eyes;  and  forest  green, 
Cooler  than  all  the  wonders  he  had  seen, 
Lull'd  with  its  simple  song  his  fluttering 
breast.  1031 

How  happy  once  again  in  grassy  nest ! 


BOOK    IV 

MUSE  of  my  native  land  !  loftiest  Muse  ! 
O   first-born   on   the   mountains !    by   the 

hues 

Of  heaven  on  the  spiritual  air  begot: 
Long  didst  thou  sit  alone  in  northern  grot, 
While  yet  our  England  was  a  wolfish  den; 
Before  our  forests  heard  the  talk  of  men; 
Before  the  first  of  Druids  was  a  child ;  — 
Long  didst  thou  sit  amid  our  regions  wild, 
Rapt  in  a  deep  prophetic  solitude. 
There   came  an  eastern  voice   of  solemn 

mood:  —  10 

Yet  wast  thou  patient.     Then  sang  forth 

the  Nine, 

Apollo's  garland:  —  yet  didst  thou  divine 
Such  home-bred  glory,  that  they  cried  in 

vain, 

«  Come  hither,  Sister  of  the  Island  ! '  Plain 
Spake   fair   Ausonia;   and  once   more  she 

spake 

A  higher  summons: — still  didst  thou  be- 
take 
Thee  to  thy  native  hopes.     O  thou  hast 

won 
A  full    accomplishment !      The    thing   is 

done, 
Which  undone,  these  our  latter  days  had 

risen 
On  barren  souls.   Great  Muse,  thou  know'st 

what  prison  20 

Of  flesh  and  bone,  curbs,  and  confines,  and 

frets 

Our  spirits'  wings:  despondency  besets 
Our  pillows;  and  the  fresh  to-morrow  morn 
Seems  to  give  forth  its  light  in  very  scorn 
Of  our  dull,  uninspired,  snail-paced  lives. 
Long  have    I   said,   how    happy   he   who 

shrives 


BOOK   FOURTH 


95 


To   thee  !     But   then   I   thought  on  poets 

gone, 
And  could  not  pray:  —  nor  can  I  now  —  so 

on 
I  move  to  the  end  in  lowliness  of  heart.  — 

'  Ah,  woe  is  me  !  that  I  should  fondly 
part  30 

From  my  dear  native  land!  Ah,  foolish 
maid  ! 

Glad  was  the  hour,  when,  with  thee,  myri- 
ads bade 

Adieu  to  Ganges  and  their  pleasant  fields  ! 

To  one  so  friendless  the  clear  freshet 
yields 

A  bitter  coolness;  the  ripe  grape  is  sour: 

Yet  I  would  have,  great  gods !  but  one 
short  hour 

Of  native  air  —  let  me  but  die  at  home.' 

Endymion  to  heaven's  airy  dome 
Was  offering  up  a  hecatomb  of  vows, 
When  these  words  reach'd  him.     Where- 
upon he  bows  40 
His  head  through  thorny-green   entangle- 
ment 

Of  underwood,  and  to  the  sound  is  bent, 
Anxious  as  hind  towards  her  hidden  fawn. 

*  Is  no  one  near  to  help  me  ?     No  fair 

dawn 
Of  life  from  charitable  voice  ?     No  sweet 

saying 

To  set  my  dull  and  sadden'd  spirit  playing  ? 
No  hand  to  toy  with  mine  ?     No  lips  so 

sweet 
That  I  may  worship  them  ?    No  eyelids 

meet 

To  twinkle  on  my  bosom  ?    No  one  dies 
Before  me,  till  from  these  enslaving  eyes  50 
Redemption    sparkles  !  —  I    am    sad    and 

lost.' 

Thou,  Carian  lord,  hadst  better  have  been 

tost 

Into  a  whirlpool.     Vanish  into  air, 
Warm  mountaineer !  for  canst  thou  only 

bear 


A  woman's  sigh  alone  and  in  distress  ? 
See  not  her  charms !     Is  Phcebe  passion- 
less? 

Phffibe  is  fairer  far  —  O  gaze  no  more:  — 
Yet  if  thou  wilt  behold  all  beauty's  store, 
Behold  her  panting  in  the  forest  grass  ! 
Do  not  those  curls  of  glossy  jet  surpass    60 
For  tenderness  the  arms  so  idly  lain 
Amongst  them  ?     Feelest   not   a  kindred 

pain, 

To  see  such  lovely  eyes  in  swimming  search 
After  some  warm  delight,  that  seems  to 

perch 

Dovelike  in  the  dim  cell  lying  beyond 
Their  upper  lids  ?  —  Hist ! 

'  O  for  Hermes'  wand, 
To  touch  this  flower  into  human  shape  ! 
That  woodland  Hyacinthus  could  escape 
From  his  green  prison,  and  here  kneeling 

down 
Call  me  his  queen,  his  second  life's  fair 

crown  !  70 

Ah  me,  how  I  could  love  !  —  My  soul  doth 

melt 
For  the  unhappy  youth  —  Love  !     I  have 

felt 

So  faint  a  kindness,  such  a  meek  surrender 
To  what  my  own  full  thoughts  had  made 

too  tender, 

That  but  for  tears  my  life  had  fled  away  ! 
Ye  deaf  and  senseless  minutes  of  the  day, 
And  thou,  old  forest,  hold  ye  this  for  true, 
There  is  no  lightning,  no  authentic  dew 
But  in  the  eye  of  love :  there 's  not  a  sound, 
Melodious  howsoever,  can  confound          80 
The  heavens  and  earth  in  one  to  such  a 

death 
As  doth  the  voice  of  love:  there's  not  a 

breath 

Will  mingle  kindly  with  the  meadow  air, 
Till  it  has  panted  round,  and  stolen  a  share 
Of  passion  from  the  heart  ! '  — 

Upon  a  bough 

He  leant,  wretched.    He  surely  cannot  now 
Thirst  for  another  love:  O  impious, 
That  he  can  even  dream  upon  it  thus  !  — 


ENDYMION 


Thought  he,  'Why  am  I  not   as  are  the 

dead, 

Since  to  a  woe  like  this  I  have  been  led    90 
Through  the  dark  earth,  and  through  the 

wondrous  sea  ? 
Goddess  !   I  love  thee  not  the  less:   from 

thee 

By  Juno's  smile  I  turn  not  —  no,  no,  no  — 
While   the   great  waters   are  at  ebb    and 

flow.  — 

I  have  a  triple  soul  !  O  fond  pretence  — 
For  both,  for  both  my  love  is  so  immense, 
I  feel  my  heart  is  cut  for  them  in  twain.' 

And  so  he   groan'd,   as  one  by  beauty 

slain. 
The  lady's  heart  beat  quick,  and  he  could 

see 

Her  gentle  bosom  heave  tumultuously.    100 
He  sprang  from  his   green  covert:   there 

she  lay, 

Sweet  as  a  musk-rose  upon  new-made  hay; 
With  all  her  limbs  on  tremble,  and  her 

eyes 

Shut  softly  up  alive.     To  speak  he  tries: 
'  Fair  damsel,  pity  me  !  forgive  that  I 
Thus  violate  thy  bower's  sanctity  ! 

0  pardon  me,  for  I  am  full  of  grief  — 
Grief  born  of  thee,  young  angel !  fairest 

thief ! 

Who  stolen  hast  away  the  wings  where- 
with 

1  was  to  top  the  heavens.     Dear  maid,  sith 
Thou  art  my  executioner,  and  I  feel         m 
Loving  and  hatred,  misery  and  weal, 
Will  in  a  few  short  hours  be  nothing  to  me, 
And  all  my  story  that  much  passion  slew 

me; 

Do  smile  upon  the  evening  of  my  days; 
And,  for  my  tortured  brain  begins  to  craze, 
Be  thou  my  nurse;  and  let  me  understand 
How  dying  I  shall  kiss  that  lily  hand.  — 
Dost  weep  for  me  ?     Then  should  I  be  con- 
tent. 

Scowl  on,  ye  fates  !  until  the  firmament    120 
Outblackens  Erebus,  and  the  full-cavern'd 

earth 
Crumbles  into  itself.     By  the  cloud-girth 


Of  Jove,  those  tears  have  given  me  a  thirst 
To  meet  oblivion.'  —  As  her  heart  would 

burst 

The  maiden  sobb'd  awhile,  and  then  re- 
plied: 

'  Why  must  such  desolation  betide 
As  that  thou  speakest  of  ?     Are  not  these 

green  nooks 

Empty  of  all  misfortune  ?     Do  the  brooks 
Utter    a    gorgon    voice  ?       Does   yonder 

thrush, 
Schooling   its    half-fledged   little   ones    to 

brush  i3o 

About  the  dewy  forest,  whisper  tales  ?  — 
Speak  not  of  grief,  young  stranger,  or  cold 

snails 
Will  slime  the  rose  to-night.     Though  if 

thou  wilt, 
Methinks    'twould    be    a    guilt  —  a   very 

guilt  — 

Not  to  companion  thee,  and  sigh  away 
The    light  — the    dusk  — the    dark  — till 

break  of  day  ! ' 

'  Dear  lady,'  said  Endymion,  '  'tis  past: 
I  love  thee  !  and  my  days  can  never  last. 
That  I  may  pass  in  patience  still  speak: 
Let  me  have  music  dying,  and  I  seek       140 
No  more  delight  —  I  bid  adieu  to  all. 
Didst  thou  not  after  other  climates  call, 
And  murmur   about  Indian   streams  ? '  — 

Then  she, 

Sitting  beneath  the  midmost  forest  tree, 
For  pity  sang  this  roundelay 

1 0  Sorrow, 

Why  dost  borrow 
The  natural  hue  of  health,  from  vermeil 

lips?  — 

To  give  maiden  blushes 
To  the  white  rose  bushes  ?  150 

Or  is  't  thy  dewy  hand  the  daisy  tips  ? 

'O  Sorrow, 

Why  dost  borrow 
The  lustrous  passion  from  a  falcon-eye  ?  — 

To  give  the  glowworm  light  ? 

Or,  on  a  moonless  night, 
To  tinge,  on  siren  shores,  the  salt  sea-spry  ? 


BOOK   FOURTH 


97 


« O  Sorrow, 

Why  dost  borrow 

The     mellow    ditties   from    a     mourning 
tongue  ?  —  160 

To  give  at  evening  pale 
Unto  the  nightingale, 

That   thou    mayst  listen   the    cold    dews 
among  ? 

«  O  Sorrow, 

Why  dost  borrow 
Heart's  lightness  from  the  merriment  of 

May?  — 

A  lover  would  not  tread 
A  cowslip  on  the  head, 
Though  he  should  dance  from  eve  till  peep 

of  day  — 

Nor  any  drooping  flower  170 

Held  sacred  for  thy  bower, 
Wherever  he  may  sport  himself  and  play. 

'  To  Sorrow, 

I  bade  good  morrow, 
And  thought  to  leave  her  far  away  behind; 

But  cheerly,  cheerly, 

She  loves  me  dearly; 
She  is  so  constant  to  me,  and  so  kind: 

I  would  deceive  her, 

And  so  leave  her,  180 

But  ah  !  she  is  so  constant  and  so  kind. 

'  Beneath  my  palm-trees,  by  the  river  side, 
I  sat  a- weeping:  in  the  whole  world  wide 
There  was  no  one  to  ask  me  why  I  wept,  — 

And  so  I  kept 
Brimming  the  water-lily  cups  with  tears 

Cold  as  my  fears. 

*  Beneath  rny  palm-trees,  by  the  river  side, 
I  sat  a- weeping:  what  enamour'd  bride, 
Cheated  by  shadowy  wooer  from  the  clouds, 
But  hides  and  shrouds  i9I 

Beneath  dark  palm-trees  by  a  river  side  ? 

» And  as  I  sat,  over  the  light  blue  hills 
There  came  a  noise  of  revellers:  the  rills 
Into  the  wide  stream  came  of  purple  hue  — 
'T  was  Bacchus  and  his  crew  ! 


The    earnest  trumpet    spake,   and    silver 

thrills 
From  kissing  cymbals  made  a  merry  din  — 

'T  was  Bacchus  and  his  kin  ! 
Like  to  a  moving  vintage  down  they  came, 
Crown'd  with  green  leaves,  and  faces  all 

on  flame;  201 

All   madly  dancing   through  the  pleasant 

valley, 

To  scare  thee,  Melancholy  ! 
O  then,  O  then,  thou  wast  a  simple  name  ! 
And  I  forgot  thee,  as  the  berried  holly 
By  shepherds  is  forgotten,  when,  in  June, 
Tall   chestnuts  keep  away  the    sun    and 

moon:  — 
I  rush'd  into  the  folly  ! 

'  Within  his  car,  aloft,  young  Bacchus  stood, 
Trifling  his  ivy-dart,  in  dancing  mood,     210 

With  sidelong  laughing; 
And  little  rills  of  crimson  wine  imbrued 
His    plump   white    arms,   and    shoulders, 
enough  white 

For  Venus'  pearly  bite; 
And  near  him  rode  Silenus  on  his  ass, 
Pelted  with  flowers  as  he  on  did  pass 

Tipsily  quaffing. 

'  Whence  came  ye,  merry  Damsels  !  whence 

came  ye  ! 

So  many,  and  so  many,  and  such  glee  ? 
Why  have  ye  left  your  bowers  desolate,  220 

Your  lutes,  and  gentler  fate  ?  — 
"  We  follow  Bacchus !  Bacchus  on  the  wing, 

A  conquering  ! 

Bacchus,  young  Bacchus  !  good  or  ill  be- 
tide, 
We  dance  before  him  thorough  kingdoms 

wide :  — 

Come  hither,  lady  fair,  and  joined  be 
To  our  wild  minstrelsy  !  " 

'  Whence  came  ye,  jolly  Satyrs  !  whence 

came  ye, 

So  many,  and  so  many,  and  such  glee  ? 
Why  have  ye  left  your  forest  haunts,  why 

left  230 

Your  nuts  in  oak-tree  cleft  ?  — 


98 


ENDYMION 


"  For  wine,  for  wine  we  left  our  kernel  tree ; 
For  wine  we  left  our  heath,  and  yellow 

brooms, 

And  cold  mushrooms; 
For  wine  we  follow  Bacchus  through  the 

earth; 
Great  god  of  breathless  cups  and  chirping 

mirth  !  — 

Come  hither,  lady  fair,  and  joined  be 
To  our  mad  minstrelsy  ! " 

'Over  wide  streams  and  mountains  great 

we  went, 

And,  save  when  Bacchus  kept  his  ivy  tent, 
Onward  the  tiger  and  the  leopard  pants,   241 

With  Asian  elephants: 
Onward  these   myriads  —  with  song  and 

dance, 
With  zebras  striped,  and  sleek  Arabians' 

prance, 

Web-footed  alligators,  crocodiles, 
Bearing  upon  their  scaly  backs,  in  files, 
Plump  infant  laughers  mimicking  the  coil 
Of  seamen,  and  stout  galley-rowers'  toil: 
With  toying  oars  and  silken  sails  they  glide, 
Nor  care  for  wind  and  tide.  250 

*  Mounted   on    panthers'    furs    and    lions' 

manes, 
From  rear  to  van  they  scour  about  the 

plains; 

A  three  days'  journey  in  a  moment  done: 
And  always,  at  the  rising  of  the  sun, 
About  the  wilds  they  hunt  with  spear  and 

horn, 
On  spleenful  unicorn. 

*  I  saw  Osirian  Egypt  kneel  adown 

Before  the  vine-wreath  crown  ! 
I  saw  parch'd  Abyssinia  rouse  and  sing 

To  the  silver  cymbals'  ring  !         260 
I  saw  the  whelming  vintage  hotly  pierce 

Old  Tartary  the  fierce  ! 
The  Bangs  of  Inde  their  jewel-sceptres  vail, 
And  from  their  treasures  scatter  pearled 

hail; 

Great    Brahma    from  his   mystic  heaven 
groans, 


And  all  his  priesthood  moans; 
Before  young   Bacchus'   eye-wink  turning 


Into  these  regions  came  I  following  him, 
Sick-hearted,  weary  —  so  I  took  a  whim 
To  stray  away  into  these  forests  drear  270 

Alone,  without  a  peer: 
And  I  have  told  thee  all  thou  mayest  hear, 

'  Young  Stranger ! 

I  've  been  a  ranger 
In  search  of   pleasure   throughout  every 

clime: 

Alas,  't  is  not  for  me  ! 
Bewitch'd  I  sure  must  be, 
To  lose  in  grieving  all  my  maiden  prime. 

*  Come  then,  Sorrow  ! 

Sweetest  Sorrow !  280 

Like  an  own   babe   I   nurse   thee   on  my 

breast: 

I  thought  to  leave  thee 
And  deceive  thee, 
But  now  of  all  the  world  I  love  thee  best. 

*  There  is  not  one, 
No,  no,  not  one 

But  thee  to  comfort  a  poor  lonely  maid; 

Thou  art  her  mother, 

And  her  brother, 

Her    playmate,    and   her    wooer    in    the 
shade.'  290 

O  what  a  sigh  she  gave  in  finishing, 
And    look,   quite   dead   to   every   worldly 

thing ! 
Endymion  could  not  speak,  but  gazed  on 

her: 

And  listened  to  the  wind  that  now  did  stir 
About  the  crisped  oaks  full  drearily, 
Yet  with  as  sweet  a  softness  as  might  be 
Remember'd  from  its  velvet  summer  song. 
At  last  he  said:  '  Poor  lady,  how  thus  long 
Have  I  been  able  to  endure  that  voice  ?  299 
Fair  Melody  !  kind  Siren  !  I  Ve  no  choice ; 
I  must  be  thy  sad  servant  evermore: 
I  cannot  choose  but  kneel  here  and  adore. 
Alas,  I  must  not  think  —  by  Phoebe,  no  1 


BOOK   FOURTH 


99 


Let  me  not  think,  soft  Angel !  shall  it  be 

so? 
Say,  beautif ullest,  shall  I  never  think  ? 

0  thou  couldst  foster  me  beyond  the  brink 
Of  recollection  !  make  my  watchful  care 
Close  up  its  bloodshot  eyes,  nor  see  de- 
spair ! 

Do  gently  murder  half  my  soul,  and  I 
Shall  feel  the  other  half  so  utterly  !  —     310 

1  'm  giddy  at  that  cheek  so  fair  and  smooth; 
O  let  it  blush  so  ever  !  let  it  soothe 

My  madness  !  let  it  mantle  rosy-warm 

With  the  tinge  of  love,  panting  in  safe 
alarm.  — 

This  cannot  be  thy  hand,  and  yet  it  is; 

And  this  is  sure  thine  other  softling  —  this 

Thine  own  fair  bosom,  and  I  am  so  near  ! 

Wilt  fall  asleep  ?     O  let  me  sip  that  tear  ! 

And  whisper  one  sweet  word  that  I  may 
know 

This  is  this  world  —  sweet  dewy  blossom  ! ' 
—  Woe  !  320 

Woe !  woe  to  that  Endymion  !  Where  is 
he?  — 

Even  these  words  went  echoing  dismally 

Through  the  wide  forest  —  a  most  fearful 
tone, 

Like  one  repenting  in  his  latest  moan; 

And  while  it  died  away  a  shade  pass'd  by, 

As  of  a  thundercloud.     When  arrows  fly 

Through  the  thick  branches,  poor  ring- 
doves sleek  forth 

Their  timid  necks  and  tremble;  so  these 
both  328 

Leant  to  each  other  trembling,  and  sat  so 

Waiting  for  some  destruction  —  when  lo  ! 

Foot-feather'd  Mercury  appear'd  sublime 

Beyond  the  tall  tree  tops;  and  in  less  time 

Than  shoots  the  slanted  hail-storm,  down 
he  dropt 

Towards  the  ground;  but  rested  not,  nor 
stopt 

One  moment  from  his  home:  only  the 
sward 

He  with  his  wand  light  touch'd,  and  hea- 
venward 

Swifter  than  sight  was  gone  —  even  be- 
fore 


The  teeming  earth  a  sudden  witness  bore 
Of  his  swift  magic.     Diving  swans  appear 
Above    the    crystal    circlings    white    and 

clear;  34° 

And  catch  the  cheated  eye  in  wild  surprise, 
How  they  can  dive  in  sight  and  unseen 

rise  — 

So  from  the  turf  outsprang  two  steeds  jet- 
black, 
Each  with  large  dark  blue  wings  upon  his 

back. 

The  youth  of  Caria  placed  the  lovely  dame 
On  one,  and  felt  himself  in  spleen  to  tame 
The  other's  fierceness.  Through  the  air 

they  flew, 
High  as  the  eagles.     Like   two   drops  of 

dew 
Exhaled  to  Phcebus'  lips,  away  they  are 

gone,  349 

Far  from  the  earth  away  —  unseen,  alone, 
Among  cool  clouds  and  winds,  but  that  the 

free, 

The  buoyant  life  of  song  can  floating  be 
Above  their  heads,  and  follow  them  untired. 
Muse  of  my  native  land,  am  I  inspired  ? 
This  is  the  giddy  air,  and  I  must  spread 
Wide  pinions  to  keep  here;  nor  do  I  dread 
Or   height,    or   depth,    or    width,   or   any 

chance 

Precipitous:  I  have  beneath  my  glance 
Those  towering  horses  and  their  mournful 

freight.  359 

Could  I  thus  sail,  and  see,  and  thus  await 
Fearless  for  power  of  thought,  without 

thine  aid  ?  — 

There  is  a  sleepy  dusk,  an  odorous  shade 
From  some  approaching  wonder,  and  be- 
hold 
Those  winged  steeds,  with  snorting  nostrils 

bold 
Snuff  at  its  faint  extreme,  and  seem  to 

tire, 
Dying  to  embers  from  their  native  fire  ! 

There  eurPd  a  purple  mist  around  them; 

soon, 

It  seem'd  as  when  around  the   pale  new 
moon 


IOO 


ENDYMION 


Sad  Zephyr  droops  the  clouds  like  weeping 
willow: 

'T  was  Sleep  slow  journeying  with  head  on 
pillow  370 

For  the  first  time,  since  he  came  nigh  dead- 
born 

From  the  old  womb  of  night,  his  cave  for- 
lorn 

Had  he  left  more  forlorn;  for  the  first 
time, 

He  felt  aloof  the  day  and  morning's 
prime  — 

Because  into  his  depth  Cimmerian 

There  came  a  dream,  showing  how  a  young 
man, 

Ere  a  lean  bat  could  plump  its  wintery 
skin, 

Would  at  high  Jove's  empyreal  footstool 
win 

An  immortality,  and  how  espouse 

Jove's  daughter,  and  be  reckon'd  of  his 
house.  380 

Now  was  he  slumbering  towards  heaven's 
gate, 

That  he  might  at  the  threshold  one  hour 
wait 

To  hear  the  marriage  melodies,  and  then 

Sink  downward  to  his  dusky  cave  again. 

His  litter  of  smooth  semilucent  mist, 

Diversely  tinged  with  rose  and  amethyst, 

Puzzled  those  eyes  that  for  the  centre 
sought; 

And  scarcely  for  one  moment  could  be 
caught 

His  sluggish  form  reposing  motionless. 

Those  two  on  winged  steeds,  with  all  the 
stress  390 

Of  vision  search'd  for  him,  as  one  would 
look 

Athwart  the  sallows  of  a  river  nook 

To  catch  a  glance  at  silver-throated  eels,  — 

Or  from  old  Skiddaw's  top,  when  fog  con- 
ceals 

His  rugged  forehead  in  a  mantle  pale, 

With  an  eye-guess  towards  some  pleasant 
vale 

Descry  a  favourite  hamlet  faint  and  far. 


These  raven  horses,  though  they  foster'd 

are 

Of  earth's  splenetic  fire,  dully  drop 
Their  full-vein'd  ears,  nostrils  blood  wide, 

and  stop;  4oo 

Upon  the  spiritless   mist   have   they  out- 
spread 
Their    ample     feathers,    are    in    slumber 

dead, — 

And  on  those  pinions,  level  in  mid  air, 
Endymion  sleepeth  and  the  lady  fair. 
Slowly  they  sail,  slowly  as  icy  isle 
Upon  a  calm  sea  drifting:  and  meanwhile 
The  mournful  wanderer  dreams.     Behold  ! 

he  walks 

On  heaven's  pavement;  brotherly  he  talks 
To  divine  powers :  from  his  hand  full  fain 
Juno's  proud  birds  are  pecking  pearly 

grain:  4i0 

He  tries  the  nerve  of  Pho3bus'  golden  bow, 
And  asketh  where  the  golden  apples  grow: 
Upon  his  arm  he  braces  Pallas'  shield, 
And  strives  in  vain  to  unsettle  and  wield 
A  Jovian  thunderbolt:  arch  Hebe  brings 
A  full-brimm'd  goblet,  dances  lightly,  sings 
And  tantalizes  long;  at  last  he  drinks, 
And  lost  in  pleasure,  at  her  feet  he  sinks, 
Touching  with  dazzled   lips   her  starlight 

hand. 

He  blows  a  bugle,  —  an  ethereal  band     420 
Are  visible  above:  the  Seasons  four, — 
Green-kirtled  Spring,  flush  Summer,  golden 

store 

In  Autumn's  sickle,  Winter  frosty  hoar, 
Join  dance  with  shadowy  Hours ;  while  still 

the  blast, 

In  swells  unmitigated,  still  doth  last 
To  sway  their  floating  morris.     '  Whose  is 

this? 
Whose  bugle  ? '  he  inquires:  they  smile  — 

« O  Dis  ! 
Why  is  this  mortal  here  ?     Dost  thou  not 

know 
Its    mistress'    lips  ?      Not  thou  ?  —  'T  is 

Dian's:  lo  !  429 

She  rises  crescented  ! '     He  looks,  't  is  she, 
His  very  goddess:  good-bye  earth, and  sea, 


BOOK   FOURTH 


IOT 


And  air,  and  pains,  and  care,  and  suffering; 
Good-bye  to  all  but  love  !    Then  doth  he 

spring 
Towards  her,  and  awakes  —  and,  strange, 

o'erhead, 

Of  those  same  fragrant  exhalations  bred, 
Beheld  awake  his  very  dream :  the  gods 
Stood   smiling;    merry   Hebe   laughs   and 

nods; 
And  Phcebe  bends  towards  him  crescented. 

0  state  perplexing  !     On  the  pinion  bed, 
Too  well  awake,  he  feels  the  panting  side  440 
Of  his  delicious  lady.     He  who  died 

For  soaring  too  audacious  in  the  sun, 
When  that  same  treacherous  wax  began  to 

run, 

Felt  not  more  tongue-tied  than  Endymion. 
His  heart  leapt  up  as  to  its  rightful  throne, 
To  that  fair  -  shadow 'd  passion  pulsed  its 

way  — 

Ah,  what  perplexity  !     Ah,  well  a  day  ! 
So  fond,  so  beauteous  was  his  bed-fellow, 
He  could  not  help  but  kiss  her:   then  he 

grew 

Awhile  forgetful  of  all  beauty  save          450 
Young  Phoebe's,  golden-hair'd;  and  so  'gan 

crave 

Forgiveness:  yet  he  turn'd  once  more  to  look 
At  the   sweet   sleeper,  —  all   his  soul  was 

shook,  — 
She  press'd  his  hand  in  slumber;  so  once 

more 

He  could  not  help  but  kiss  her  and  adore. 
At  this  the  shadow  wept,  melting  away. 
The  Latmian  started  up:  'Bright  goddess, 

stay! 
Search  my  most  hidden  breast !    By  truth's 

own  tongue, 

1  have  no  dsedale  heart;  why  is  it  wrung  459 
To  desperation  ?     Is  there  nought  for  me, 
Upon  the  bourne  of  bliss,  but  misery  ?  ' 

These  words  awoke  the  stranger  of  dark 

tresses  : 
Her   dawning   love  -  look   rapt   Endymion 

blesses 
With  'haviour  soft.      Sleep  yawn'd  from 

underneath. 


'Thou    swan   of  Ganges,  let  us    no   more 

breathe 
This    murky  phantasm  !    thou    contented 

seem'st 

Pillow'd  in  lovely  idleness,  nor  dream'st 
What  horrors   may   discomfort  thee   and 

me. 

Ah,  shouldst    thou    die    from   my    heart- 
treachery  !  —  469 
Yet  did  she  merely  weep  — her  gentle  soul 
Hath  no  revenge  in  it:  as  it  is  whole 
In  tenderness,  would  I  were  whole  in  love  ! 
Can  I  prize  thee,  fair  maid,  all  price  above, 
Even  when  I  feel  as  true  as  innocence  ? 
I  do,   I   do.  — What  is  this   soul  then? 

Whence 

Came  it  ?    It  does  not  seem  my  own,  and  1 
Have  no  self-passion  or  identity. 
Some  fearful  end  must  be:   where,  where 

is  it? 

By  Nemesis,  I  see  my  spirit  flit  479 

Alone  about  the  dark  —  Forgive  me,  sweet : 
Shall  we  away?'      He  roused  the  steeds; 

they  beat 

Their  wings  chivalrous  into  the  clear  air, 
Leaving  old  Sleep  within  his  vapoury  lair. 

The  good-night  blush  of  eve  was  waning 

slow, 

And  Vesper,  risen  star,  began  to  throe 
In  the  dusk  heavens  silvery,  when  they 
Thus  sprang  direct  towards  the  Galaxy. 
Nor  did  speed   hinder   converse  soft  and 

strange  — 

Eternal  oaths  and  vows  they  interchange, 
In  such  wise,  in  such  temper,  so  aloof      490 
Up  in  the  winds,  beneath  a  starry  roof, 
So  witless  of  their  doom,  that  verily 
'T  is  well  nigh  past  man's  search  their  hearts 

to  see; 
Whether  they  wept,  or  laugh'd,  or  grieved 

or  toy'd  — 
Most  like  with  joy  gone  mad,  with  sorrow 

cloy'd. 

Full  facing  their  swift  flight,  from  ebon 

streak, 
The  moon  put  forth  a  little  diamond  peak, 


IO2 


ENDYMION 


No  bigger  than  an  unobserved  star, 

Or  tiny  point  of  fairy  scimetar; 

Bright  signal  that  she  only  stoop'd  to  tie    500 

Her  silver  sandals,  ere  deliciously 

She  bow'd  into  the  heavens  her  timid  head. 

Slowly  she  rose,  as  though  she  would  have 

fled, 

While  to  his  lady  meek  the  Carian  turn'd, 
To  mark  if  her  dark  eyes  had  yet  discern'd 
This  beauty  in  its  birth  —  Despair  !  despair ! 
He  saw  her  body  fading  gaunt  and  spare 
In  the  cold  moonshine.     Straight  he  seized 

her  wrist; 
It   melted   from  his   grasp;   her  hand  he 

kiss'd, 
And,    horror !    kiss'd    his    own  —  he  was 

alone.  510 

Her  steed  a  little  higher  soar'd,  and  then 
Dropt  hawk-wise  to  the  earth. 

There  lies  a  den, 

Beyond  the  seeming  confines  of  the  space 
Made  for  the  soul  to  wander  in  and  trace 
Its  own  existence,  of  remotest  glooms. 
Dark    regions    are   around   it,  where   the 

tombs 

Of  buried  griefs  the  spirit  sees,  but  scarce 
One   hour   doth  linger   weeping,    for   the 

pierce 

Of  new-born  woe  it  feels  more  inly  smart: 
And  in    these   regions    many   a   venom'd 

dart  520 

At  random  flies;  they  are  the  proper  home 
Of  every  ill:  the  man  is  yet  to  come 
Who  hath  not  journey'd  in  this  native  hell. 
But  few  have  ever  felt  how  calm  and  well 
Sleep  may  be  had  in  that  deep  den  of  all. 
There  anguish  does  not  sting,  nor  pleasure 

pall; 

Woe-hurricanes  beat  ever  at  the  gate, 
Yet  all  is  still  within  and  desolate. 
Beset  with  painful  gusts,  within  ye  hear    529 
No  sound  so  loud  as  when  on  curtain'd  bier 
The  death-watch  tick  is  stifled.     Enter  none 
Who  strive  therefore:  on  the  sudden  it  is 

won. 

Just  when  the  sufferer  begins  to  burn, 
Then  it  is  free  to  him;  and  from  an  urn, 


Still    fed    by    melting    ice,    he    takes    a 

draught  — 

Young  Semele  such  richness  never  quaff'd 
In  her  maternal  longing.  Happy  gloom  ! 
Dark  Paradise  !  where  pale  becomes  the 

bloom 

Of  health  by  due;  where  silence  dreariest 
Is  most  articulate;  where  hopes  infest;    540 
Where  those  eyes  are  the  brightest  far  that 

keep 

Their  lids  shut  longest  in  a  dreamless  sleep. 
O  happy  spirit-home  !     O  wondrous  soul ! 
Pregnant  with  such  a  den  to  save  the  whole 
In  thine  own  depth.     Hail,  gentle  Carian  ! 
For,  never  since  thy  griefs  and  woes  began, 
Hast  thou  felt  so  content:  a  grievous  feud 
Hath  led  thee  to  this  Cave  of  Quietude. 
Aye,  his  lull'd  soul  was  there,  although  up- 
borne 
With  dangerous  speed:  and  so  he  did  not 

mourn  550 

Because  he  knew  not  whither  he  was  going. 
So  happy  was  he,  not  the  aerial  blowing 
Of  trumpets  at  clear  parley  from  the  east 
Could  rouse  from  that  fine  relish,  that  high 

feast. 
They  stung  the  feather'd  horse;  with  fierce 

alarm 
He  flapp'd  towards  the  sound.      Alas,  no 

charm 
Could  lift  Endymion's  head,   or  he  had 

view'd 

A  skyey  mask,  a  pinion'd  multitude,  — 
And  silvery  was  its  passing:  voices  sweet 
Warbling  the  while  as  if  to  lull  and  greet 
The  wanderer  in  his  path.     Thus  warbled 

they,  56r 

While  past  the  vision  went  in  bright  array. 

'  Who,  who  from  Dian's  feast  would  be 

away  ? 

For  all  the  golden  bowers  of  the  day 
Are  empty  left  ?     Who,  who  away  would 

be 

From  Cynthia's  wedding  and  festivity  ? 
Not  Hesperus:  lo  !  upon  his  silver  wings 
He  leans  away  for  highest  heaven  and  sings, 
Snapping  his  lucid  fingers  merrily  !  — 


BOOK   FOURTH 


103 


Ah,  Zephyrus  !  art  here,  and  Flora  too  !    570 
Ye  tender  bibbers  of  the  rain  and  dew, 
Young  playmates  of  the  rose  and  daffodil, 
Be  careful,  ere  ye  enter  in,  to  fill 

Your  baskets  high 
With  fennel  green,  and  balm,  and  golden 

pines, 

Savory,  latter-mint,  and  columbines, 
Cool  parsley,  basil  sweet,  and  sunny  thyme; 
Yea,  every  flower  and  leaf  of  every  clime, 
All  gathered  in  the  dewy  morning:  hie 

Away  !  fly,  fly  !  —  580 

Crystalline  brother  of  the  belt  of  heaven, 
Aquarius  !  to  whom  king  Jove  has  given 
Two  liquid  pulse  streams  'stead  of  feath- 

er'd  wings, 
Two  fanlike  fountains,  —  thine  illumiuings 

For  Dian  play: 

Dissolve  the  frozen  purity  of  air; 
Let  thy  white  shoulders  silvery  and  bare 
Show  cold  through  watery  pinions;  make 

more  bright 

The  Star-Queen's  crescent  on  her  marriage 
night: 

Haste,  haste  away  !  —  590 

Castor  has  tamed  the  planet  Lion,  see  ! 
And  of  the  Bear  has  Pollux  mastery: 
A  third  is  in  the  race  !  who  is  the  third, 
Speeding  away  swift  as  the  eagle  bird  ? 

The  ramping  Centaur  ! 
The  Lion's  mane  's  on  end:  the  Bear  how 

fierce  ! 

The  Centaur's  arrow  ready  seems  to  pierce 
Some  enemy:  far  forth  his  bow  is  bent 
Into  the  blue  of  heaven.     He  '11  be  shent, 

Pale  unrelentor,  600 

When    he   shall   hear  the   wedding    lutes 

a-playing.  — 

Andromeda  !  sweet  woman  !  why  delaying 
So  timidly  among  the  stars:  come  hither  ! 
Join  this  bright  throng,  and  nimbly  follow 
whither 

They  all  are  going. 

Danae's  Son,  before  Jove  newly  bow'd, 
Has  wept  for  thee,  calling  to  Jove  aloud. 
Thee,  gentle  lady,  did  he  disenthrall: 
Ye  shall  for  ever  live  and  love,  for  all 

Thy  tears  are  flowing. —  610 

By  Daphne's  fright,  behold  Apollo  ! '  — 


More 
Endymion  heard  not:  down  his  steed  him 

bore, 
Prone  to  the  green  head  of  a  misty  hill. 

His  first  touch  of  the  earth  went  nigh  to 

kill. 

'  Alas  ! '  said  he,  '  were  I  but  always  borne 
Through   dangerous   winds,   had   but    my 

footsteps  worn 

A  path  in  hell,  for  ever  would  I  bless 
Horrors  which  nourish  an  uneasiness 
For  my  own  sullen  conquering:  to  him 
Who  lives  beyond  earth's  boundary,  grief 

is  dim,  620 

Sorrow  is  but  a  shadow:  now  I  see 
The  grass;  I  feel  the  solid  ground  —  Ah, 

me  ! 
It   is   thy   voice  —  divinest  !      Where  ?  — 

who?  who 

Left  thee  so  quiet  on  this  bed  of  dew  ? 
Behold  upon  this  happy  earth  we  are; 
Let  us  ay  love  each  other;  let  us  fare 
On  forest-fruits,  and  never,  never  go 
Among  the  abodes  of  mortals  here  below, 
Or  be  by  phantoms  duped.     O  destiny  ! 
Into  a  labyrinth  now  my  soul  would  fly,  630 
But  with  thy  beauty  will  I  deaden  it. 
Where  didst  thou  melt  to  ?     By  thee  will 

I  sit 

For  ever:  let  our  fate  stop  here  —  a  kid 
I  on  this  spot  will  offer:  Pan  will  bid 
Us  live  in  peace,  in  love  and  peace  among 
His  forest  wildernesses.     I  have  clung 
To  nothing,  loved  a  nothing,  nothing  seen 
Or  felt  but  a  great  dream  !     Oh,  I  have 

been 
Presumptuous    against   love,    against    the 

sky, 

Against  all  elements,  against  the  tie        64o 
Of  mortals  each  to  each,  against  the  blooms 
Of  flowers,  rush  of  rivers,  and  the  tombs 
Of  heroes  gone  !     Against  his  proper  glory 
Has  my  own  soul  conspired:  so  my  story 
Will  I  to  children  utter,  and  repent. 
There  never  lived  a  mortal  man,  who  bent 
His  appetite  beyond  his  natural  sphere, 
But  starved  and  died.     My  sweetest  Indian, 

here. 


104 


ENDYMION 


Here  will  I  kneel,  for  thou  redeemed  hast 
My  life  from  too  thin  breathing:  gone  and 

past  650 

Are    cloudy  phantasms.       Caverns    lone, 

farewell ! 

And  air  of  visions,  and  the  monstrous  swell 
Of  visionary  seas  !    No,  never  more 
Shall  airy  voices  cheat  me  to  the  shore 
Of  tangled  wonder,  breathless  and  aghast. 
Adieu,  my  daintiest  Dream  !  although  so 

vast 
My  love  is  still  for  thee.     The  hour  may 

come 

When  we  shall  meet  in  pure  elysium. 
On  earth  I  may  not  love  thee;  and  there- 
fore 

Doves  will  I  offer  up,  and  sweetest  store  660 
All  through  the  teeming  year  :  so  thou  wilt 

shine 

On  me,  and  on  this  damsel  fair  of  mine, 
And  bless  our  simple   lives.     My   Indian 

bliss  ! 

My  river-lily  bud  !  one  human  kiss  ! 
One    sigh    of    real    breath  —  one    gentle 

squeeze, 
Warm   as  a  dove's   nest  among  summer 

trees, 
And  warm  with  dew  at  ooze  from  living 

blood  ! 
Whither  didst  melt  ?  Ah,  what  of  that !  — 

all  good 
We  '11  talk  about  —  no  more  of  dreaming. 

—  Now, 
Where  shall  our  dwelling  be  ?     Under  the 

brow  670 

Of  some  steep  mossy  hill,  where  ivy  dun 
Would  hide  us  up,  although  spring  leaves 

were  none; 
And  where  dark  yew  trees,  as  we  rustle 

through 

Will  drop  their  scarlet  berry  cups  of  dew  ? 
O  thou  wouldst  joy  to  live  in  such  a  place ; 
Dusk  for  our  loves,  yet  light  enough  to 

grace 

Those  gentle  limbs  on  mossy  bed  reclined: 
For  by  one  step  the  blue  sky  shouldst  thou 

find, 
And  by  another,  in  deep  dell  below, 


See,  through  the  trees,  a  little  river  go    680 
All  in  its  mid-day  gold  and  glimmering. 
Honey  from  out  the  gnarled  hive  I  '11  bring, 
And   apples,  wan  with   sweetness,  gather 

thee, — 
Cresses  that  grow  where  no  man  may  them 

see, 

And  sorrel  untorn  by  the  dew-claw'd  stag: 
Pipes  will  I  fashion  of  the  syrinx  flag, 
That  thou  mayst  always  know  whither  I 

roam, 
When   it   shall   please   thee    in  our  quiet 

home 
To  listen  and  think  of  love.     Still  let  me 

speak; 

Still  let  me  dive  into  the  joy  I  seek,  —    690 
For  yet   the   past  doth   prison   me.     The 

rill, 

Thou  haply  mayst  delight  in,  will  I  fill 
With  fairy  fishes  from  the  mountain  tarn, 
And  thou  shalt  feed  them  from  the  squir- 
rel's barn. 

Its  bottom  will  I  strew  with  amber  shells, 
And   pebbles   blue   from   deep   enchanted 

wells. 

Its  sides  I  '11  plant  with  dew-sweet  eglan- 
tine, 

And  honeysuckles  full  of  clear  bee-wine. 
I  will  entice  this  crystal  rill  to  trace 
Love's   silver  name    upon   the    meadow's 
face.  700 

I  '11  kneel  to  Vesta,  for  a  flame  of  fire ; 
And  to  god  Phrebus,  for  a  golden  lyre ; 
To  Empress  Dian,  for  a  hunting-spear; 
To  Vesper,  for  a  taper  silver-clear, 
That  I  may  see  thy  beauty  through   the 

night; 

To  Flora,  and  a  nightingale  shall  light 
Tame  on  thy  finger;  to  the  River-gods, 
And  they  shall  bring  thee  taper   fishing- 
rods 
Of  gold,  and  lines  of  Naiads'  long  bright 

tress. 

Heaven  shield  thee  for  thine  utter  loveli- 
ness !  710 
Thy  mossy  footstool  shall  the  altar  be 
'Fore  which  I  '11  bend,  bending,  dear  love, 
to  thee: 


BOOK   FOURTH 


Those  lips  shall  be  my  Delphos,  and  shall 
speak 

Laws  to  my  footsteps,  colour  to  my  cheek, 

Trembling  or  steadfastness  to  this  same 
voice, 

And  of  three  sweetest  pleasurings  the 
choice: 

And  that  affectionate  light,  those  diamond 
things, 

Those  eyes,  those  passions,  those  supreme 
pearl  springs, 

Shall  be  my  grief,  or  twinkle  me  to  plea- 
sure. 

Say,  is  not  bliss  within  our  perfect  seiz- 
ure ?  720 

0  that  I  could  not  doubt ! ' 

The  mountaineer 
Thus  strove  by  fancies  vain  and  crude  to 

clear 

His  brier'd  path  to  some  tranquillity. 
It  gave  bright  gladness  to  his  lady's  eye, 
And  yet  the  tears  she  wept  were  tears  of 

sorrow; 

Answering  thus,  just  as  the  golden  mor- 
row 
Beam'd  upward  from  the  valleys  of   the 

east: 

*  O  that  the  flutter  of  his  heart  had  ceased, 
Or   the   sweet   name   of   love   had   pass'd 

away. 

Young  feather'd  tyrant !   by  a  swift  de- 
cay 730 
Wilt  thou  devote  this  body  to  the  earth: 
And  I  do  think  that  at  my  very  birth 

1  lisp'd  thy  blooming  titles  inwardly; 

For  at  the  first,  first  dawn  and  thought  of 

thee, 

With  uplift  hands  I  blest  the  stars  of  hea- 
ven. 

Art  thou  not  cruel  ?     Ever  have  I  striven 
To  think  thee  kind,  but  ah,  it  will  not  do  ! 
When  yet  a  child,  I  heard  that  kisses  drew 
Favour  from  thee,  and  so  I  gave  and  gave 
To   the  void  air,   bidding  them   find   out 
love :  740 

But  when  I  came  to  feel  how  far  above 
All  fancy,  pride,  and  fickle  maidenhood, 


All  earthly  pleasure,  all  imagined  good, 
Was  the  warm  tremble  of  a  devout  kiss,  — 
Even  then,  that  moment,  at  the  thought  of 

this, 

Fainting  I  fell  into  a  bed  of  flowers, 
And    languish'd    there    three    days.      Ye 

milder  powers, 

Am  I  not  cruelly  wrong'd  ?     Believe,  be- 
lieve 

Me,  dear  Endymion,  were  I  to  weave 
With  my  own  fancies  garlands  of  sweet 
life,  750 

Thou  shouldst  be  one  of  all.     Ah,  bitter 

strife  ! 

I  may  not  be  thy  love:  I  am  forbidden  — 
Indeed  I  am  —  thwarted,  affrighted,  chid- 
den, 

By  things  I  tremble  at,  and  gorgon  wrath. 
Twice   hast  thou  ask'd   whither    I  went: 

henceforth 

Ask  me  no  more  !  I  may  not  utter  it, 
Nor  may  I  be  thy  love.     We  might  com- 
mit 
Ourselves  at  once  to  vengeance;  we  might 

die; 
We   might   embrace   and  die:    voluptuous 

thought ! 

Enlarge  not  to  my  hunger,  or  I  'm  caught 
In  trammels  of  perverse  deliciousness.     761 
No,  no,  that  shall  not  be:  thee  will  I  bless, 
And  bid  a  long  adieu.' 

The  Carian 
No  word  return'd:   both  lovelorn,  silent, 

wan, 

Into  the  valleys  green  together  went. 
Far  wandering,    they  were   perforce   con- 
tent 

To  sit  beneath  a  fair  lone  beechen  tree ; 
Nor  at  each  other  gazed,  but  heavily 
Pored  on  its  hazel  cirque  of  shedded  leaves. 

Endymion  !  unhappy  !  it  nigh  grieves  770 
Me  to  behold  thee  thus  in  last  extreme : 
Enskied  ere  this,  but  truly  that  I  deem 
Truth  the  best  music  in  a  first-born  song. 
Thy   lute-voiced  brother  will   I   sing   ere 
long, 


io6 


ENDYMION 


And  thou  shalt  aid  —  hast  thou  not  aided 

me? 

Yes,  moonlight  Emperor  !  felicity 
Has   been  thy  meed   for   many    thousand 

years ; 

Yet  often  have  I,  on  the  brink  of  tears, 
Mourn 'd  as  if  yet  thou  wert  a  forester;  — 
Forgetting  the  old  tale. 

He  did  not  stir 
His  eyes  from  the  dead  leaves,  or  one  small 

pulse  781 

Of  joy  he  might  have  felt.   The  spirit  culls 
Unfaded  amaranth,  when  wild  it  strays 
Through  the  old  garden-ground  of  boyish 

days. 

A  little  onward  ran  the  very  stream 
By   which    he   took    his   first   soft   poppy 

dream ; 
And  on   the  very  bark   'gainst  which   he 

leant 
A  crescent  he  had  carved,  and   round  it 

spent 

His  skill  in  little  stars.     The  teeming  tree 
Had  swollen  and  green'd  the  pious  charac- 

tery,  790 

But  not  ta'en  out.     Why,  there  was  not  a 

slope 

Up  which  he  had  not  f ear'd  the  antelope ; 
And  not  a  tree,  beneath  whose  rooty  shade 
He  had  not  with  his  tamed  leopards  play'd; 
Nor  could  an  arrow  light,  or  javelin, 
Fly  in  the  air  where  his  had  never  been  — 
And  yet  he  knew  it  not. 

O  treachery  ! 

Why  does  his  lady  smile,  pleasing  her  eye 
With  all  his  sorrowing  ?     He  sees  her  not. 
But  who   so   stares   on   him  ?    His   sister 
sure !  800 

Peona  of  the  woods  !  —  Can  she  endure  — 
Impossible — how  dearly  they  embrace  ! 
His  lady  smiles;  delight  is  in  her  face; 
It  is  no  treachery. 

'  Dear  brother  mine  ! 

Endymion,  weep  not   so  !     Why  shouldst 
thou  pine 


When  all  great  Latmos  so  exalt  will  be  ? 
Thank  the  great  gods,  and  look  not  bit- 
terly; 
And  speak  not  one  pale  word,  and  sigh  no 

more. 

Sure  I  will  not  believe  thou  hast  such  store 
Of  grief,  to  last  thee  to  my  kiss  again.  810 
Thou  surely  canst  not  bear  a  mind  in  pain, 
Come  hand  in  hand  with  one  so  beauti- 
ful/ 

Be  happy  both  of  you  !  for  I  will  pull 
The  flowers  of  autumn  for  your  coronals. 
Pan's  holy  priest  for  young  Endymion  calls; 
And   when  he   is    restored,   thou,    fairest 

dame, 

Shalt  be  our  queen.   Now,  is  it  not  a  shame 
To  see  ye  thus,  —  not  very,  very  sad  ? 
Perhaps  ye  are  too  happy  to  be  glad: 
O  feel  as  if  it  were  a  common  day;          820 
Free-voiced  as  one  who  never  was  away. 
No  tongue  shall  ask,  Whence  come  ye  ?  but 

ye  shall 

Be  gods  of  your  own  rest  imperial. 
Not  even  I,  for  one  whole  month,  will  pry 
Into  the  hours  that  have  pass'd  us  by, 
Since  in  my  arbour  I  did  sing  to  thee. 
O  Hermes  !  on  this  very  night  will  be 
A  hymning  up  to  Cynthia,  queen  of  light; 
For  the  soothsayers  old  saw  yesternight 
Good  visions  in  the  air,  —  whence  will  be- 
fall, 830 
As  say  these  sages,  health  perpetual 
To  shepherds  and  their  flocks ;  and  further- 
more, 

In  Dian's  face  they  read  the  gentle  lore: 
Therefore  for  her  these  vesper-carols  are. 
Our  friends  will  all  be  there  from  nigh  and 

far. 

Many  upon  thy  death  have  ditties  made; 
And  many,  even  now,  their  foreheads  shade 
With  cypress,  on  a  day  of  sacrifice. 
New  singing  for  our  maids  shalt  thou  devise, 
And  pluck  the  sorrow  from  our  huntsmen's 
brows.  840 

Tell  me,  my  lady-queen,  how  to  espouse 
This  wayward  brother  to  his  rightful  joys! 
His  eyes  are  on  thee  bent,  as  thou  didst 
poise 


BOOK   FOURTH 


107 


His  fate  most  goddess-like.     Help  me,  I 

pray, 

To  lure  —  Endymion,  dear  brother,  say 
What  ails  thee  ?  '    He  could  bear  no  more, 

and  so 

Bent  his  soul  fiercely  like  a  spiritual  bow, 
And  twang' d  it  inwardly,  and  calmly  said: 
'  I  would  have  thee  my  only  friend,  sweet 

maid  ! 

My  only  visitor  !  not  ignorant  though,     850 
That  those  deceptions  which  for  pleasure 

go 
'Mong  men,  are  pleasures  real  as  real  may 

be: 

But  there  are  higher  ones  I  may  not  see, 
If  impiously  an  earthly  realm  I  take. 
Since  I  saw  thee,  I  have  been  wide  awake 
Night  after  night,  and  day  by  day,  until 
Of  the  empyrean  I  have  drunk  my  fill. 
Let  it  content  thee,  Sister,  seeing  me 
More  happy  than  betides  mortality. 
A  hermit  young,  I  '11  live  in  mossy  cave,  860 
Where  thou  alone  shalt  come  to  me,  and 

lave 

Thy  spirit  in  the  wonders  I  shall  tell. 
Through  me  the  shepherd  realm  shall  pro- 
sper well; 

For  to  thy  tongue  will  I  all  health  confide. 
And,  for  my  sake,  let  this  young  maid  abide 
With  thee  as  a  dear  sister.     Thou  alone, 
Peona,  mayst  return  to  me.     I  own 
This  may  sound  strangely:  but  when,  dear- 
est girl, 

Thou  seest  it  for  my  happiness,  no  pearl 
Will  trespass  down  those  cheeks.    Compan- 
ion fair  !  870 
Wilt  be  content  to  dwell  with  her,  to  share 
This  sister's  love  with  me  ?  '     Like  one  re- 

sign'd 
And   bent   by   circumstance,  and  thereby 

blind 

In  self-commitment,  thus  that   meek  un- 
known: 

'  Aye,  but  a  buzzing  by  my  ears  has  flown, 
Of  jubilee  to  Dian:  — truth  I  heard  ! 
Well  then,  I  see  there  is  no  little  bird, 
Tender  soever,  but  is  Jove's  own  care. 
Long  have  I  sought  for  rest,  and,  unaware, 


Behold  I  find  it !  so  exalted  too  !  880 

So  after  my  own  heart !     I  knew,  I  knew 
There  was  a  place  untenanted  in  it; 
In  that  same  void  white  Chastity  shall  sit, 
And  monitor  me  nightly  to  lone  slumber. 
With  sanest  lips  I  vow  me  to  the  number 
Of  Dian's  sisterhood;  and,  kind  lady, 
With  thy  good  help,  this  very  night  shall 

see 
My  future  days  to  her  fane  consecrate.' 

As  feels  a  dreamer  what  doth  most  cre- 
ate 
His  own  particular  fright,  so  these  three 

felt:  890 

Or  like  one  who,  in  after  ages,  knelt 
To  Lucifer  or  Baal,  when  he  'd  pine 
After  a  little  sleep:  or  when  in  mine 
Far    under-ground,   a   sleeper    meets    his 

friends 

Who  know  him  not.  Each  diligently  bends 
Towards  common  thoughts  and  things  for 

very  fear; 

Striving  their  ghastly  malady  to  cheer, 
By  thinking  it  a  thing  of  yes  and  no, 
That  housewives  talk  of.     But  the  spirit- 
blow 
Was  struck,  and  all  were  dreamers.     At 

the  last  9oo 

Endymion   said:    *  Are   not  our  fates  all 

cast  ? 
Why  stand  we  here  ?     Adieu,  ye   tender 

pair  ! 
Adieu  ! '      Whereat   those   maidens,   with 

wild  stare, 

Walk'd  dizzily  away.     Pained  and  hot 
His  eyes  went  after  them,  until  they  got 
Near  to   a   cypress   grove,  whose   deadly 

maw, 
In  one  swift  moment,  would  what  then  he 

saw 
Engulf   for   ever.     « Stay,'  he  cried,    '  ah, 

stay  ! 
Turn,  damsels  !  hist !  one  word  I  have  to 

say: 

Sweet  Indian,  I  would  see  thee  once  again. 
It  is  a  thing  I  dote  on:  so  I  'd  fain,  91 1 
Peona,  ye  should  hand  in  hand  repair, 


io8 


ENDYMION 


Into  those  holy  groves  that  silent  are 
Behind  great  Dian's  temple.     I  '11  be  yon, 
At    Vesper's   earliest   twinkle  —  they   are 

gone  — 
But  once,  once,  once  again  —  '     At  this  he 

press'd 
His  hands  against  his  face,  and  then  did 

rest 

His  head  upon  a  mossy  hillock  green, 
And  so  remain  'd  as  he  a  corpse  had  been 
All  the  long  day;  save  when   he  scantly 

lifted  920 

His  eyes  abroad,  to  see  how  shadows  shifted 
With  the  slow  move   of   time,  —  sluggish 

and  weary 

Until  the  poplar  tops,  in  journey  dreary, 
Had  reach'd  the  river's  brim.     Then  up  he 

rose, 

And,  slowly  as  that  very  river  flows, 
Walk'd  towards  the  temple  grove  with  this 

lament: 
'  Why  such  a  golden  eve  ?     The  breeze  is 

sent 

Careful  and  soft,  that  not  a  leaf  may  fall 
Before  the  serene  father  of  them  all 
Bows  down  his  summer  head  below  the 

west.  930 

Now  am  I  of  breath,  speech,  and  speed 

possest, 

But  at  the  setting  I  must  bid  adieu 
To  her  for  the  last  time.     Night  will -strew 
On  the  damp  grass  myriads  of  lingering 

leaves, 
And  with  them  shall  I  die;  nor  much  it 

grieves 
To   die,  when  summer   dies   on   the   cold 

sward. 

Why,  I  have  been  a  butterfly,  a  lord 
Of  flowers,  garlands,  love-knots,  silly  po- 
sies, 

Groves,   meadows,  melodies,   and   arbour- 
roses;  939 
My  kingdom  's  at  its  death,  and  just  it  is 
That  I  should  die  with  it:  so  in  all  this 
We  miscall  grief,  bale,  sorrow,  heart-break, 

woe, 

What  is  there  to  plain  of  ?     By  Titan's  foe 
I  am  but  rightly  served.'     So  saying,  he 


Tripp'd  lightly  on,  in  sort  of  deathf  ul  glee ; 
Laughing  at  the  clear  stream  and  setting 

sun, 
As  though  they  jests  had  been:  nor  had  he 

done 

His  laugh  at  nature's  holy  countenance, 
Until  that  grove  appear'd,  as  if  perchance, 
And  then  his  tongue  with  sober  seemlihed 
Gave   utterance  as   he   enter'd:    'Ha!'    I 

said,  951 

'  King  of  the  butterflies;  but  by  this  gloom, 
And  by  old  Rhadamanthus'  tongue  of  doom, 
This  dusk  religion,  pomp  of  solitude, 
And  the  Promethean  clay  by  thief  endued, 
By  old  Saturnus'  forelock,  by  his  head 
Shook  with  eternal  palsy,  I  did  wed 
Myself  to  things  of  light  from  infancy; 
And  thus  to  be  cast  out,  thus  lorn  to  die, 
Is  sure  enough  to  make  a  mortal  man     960 
Grow  impious.'     So  he  inwardly  began 
On  things   for  which  no  wording  can  be 

found; 

Deeper  and  deeper  sinking,  until  drown'd 
Beyond  the  reach  of  music:  for  the  choir 
Of  Cynthia  he  heard  not,  though  rough 

brier 

Nor  muffling  thicket  interposed  to  dull 
The  vesper  hymn,  far  swollen,  soft  and  full, 
Through  the  dark  pillars  of  those  sylvan 

aisles. 
He  saw  not  the  two   maidens,   nor   their 

smiles, 

Wan  as  primroses  gather'd  at  midnight  970 
By  chilly-finger'd  spring.  '  Unhappy  wight ! 
Endymion  ! '  said  Peona,  *  we  are  here  ! 
What  wouldst  thou  ere  we  all  are  laid  on 

bier?' 

Then  he  embraced  her,  and  his  lady's  hand 
Press'd,  saying:  '  Sister,  I  would  have  com- 
mand, 

If  it  were  heaven's  will,  on  our  sad  fate.' 
At  which  that  dark-eyed  stranger  stood 

elate 

And  said,  in  a  new  voice,  but  sweet  as  love, 
To  Endymion's  amaze:  'By  Cupid's  dove, 
And  so  thou  shalt  !  and  by  the  lily  truth 
Of   my   own   breast    thou   shalt,    beloved 

youth  ! '  981 


BOOK   FOURTH 


109 


And   as   she    spake,   into    her   face   there 

came 

Light,  as  reflected  from  a  silver  flame: 
Her  long  black  hair  swell'd  ampler,  in  dis- 
play 

Full  golden;  in  her  eye's  a  brighter  day 
Dawn'd  blue,  and  full  of  love.     Aye,  he 

beheld 

Phoebe,  his  passion  !  joyous  she  upheld 
Her  lucid  bow,  continuing  thus:  "  Drear, 

drear 

Has  our  delaying  been ;  but  foolish  fear 
Withheld   me   first;  and   then   decrees  of 
fate;  990 

And  then  't  was  fit  that  from  this  mortal 
state 


Thou  shouldst,  my  love,  by  some  unlook'd- 

for  change 

Be  spiritualized.     Peona,  we  shall  range 
These  forests,  and  to  thee  they  safe  shall  be 
As  was  thy  cradle;  hither  shalt  thou  flee 
To  meet  us  many  a  time.'     Next  Cynthia 

bright 
Peona  kiss'd,  and  bless'd  with  fair   good 

night: 

Her  brother  kiss'd  her  too,  and  knelt  adown 
Before  his  goddess,  in  a  blissful  swoon.   999 
She  gave  her  fair  hands  to  him,  and  behold, 
Before  three  swiftest  kisses  he  had  told, 
They  vanish'd  far  away  !  —  Peona  went 
Home  through  the  gloomy  wood  in  won* 

dement 


THE   POEMS   OF    1818-1819 


The  most  pregnant  year  of  Keats 's  genius 
was  that  which  dates  roughly  from  the 
spring  of  1818  to  the  spring  of  1819,  as 
one  may  readily  see  who  scans  the  titles  of 
the  poems  included  in  this  division.  The 
group  here  given,  beginning  with  Isabella 

ISABELLA,    OR   THE    POT    OF 
BASIL 

A   STORY   FROM   BOCCACCIO 

Keats  and  Reynolds  projected  a  volume  of 
metrical  tales  translated  from  or  based  on  Boc- 
caccio. Apparently,  Keats  began  Isabella, 
which  was  to  be  one  of  his  contributions,  some 
time  before  he  went  to  Teignmouth,  where  he 
finished  Endymion.  At  any  rate,  from  that 
place  April  27,  1818,  he  wrote  to  Reynolds, 
who  was  then  quite  ill :  '  I  have  written  for  my 
folio  Shakespeare,  in  which  there  are  the  first 
few  stanzas  of  my  Pot  of  Basil.  I  have  the 
rest  here  finished,  and  will  copy  the  whole  out 
fairly  shortly,  and  George  will  bring  it  you  — 
The  compliment  is  paid  by  us  to  Boccace, 
whether  we  publish  or  no :  so  there  is  content 
in  this  world  —  mine  is  short  —  you  must  be 
deliberate  about  yours  ;  you  must  not  think  of 
it  till  many  months  after  you  are  quite  well : 
then  put  your  passion  to  it,  and  I  shall  be 
bound  up  with  you  in  the  shadows  of  Mind,  as 
we  are  in  our  matters  of  human  life.'  Keats 
did  not  wait  for  Reynolds,  but  published  his 
Isabella  in  the  volume  entitled  Lamia,  Isabella, 
The  Eve  of  St.  Agnes,  and  other  Poems  issued 
in  the  summer  of  1820. 


FAIR  Isabel,  poor  simple  Isabel ! 

Lorenzo,  a  young  palmer  in  Love's  eye  ! 
They  could  not  in  the  self-same  mansion 

dwell 

Without  some  stir  of  heart,  some  mal- 
ady; 


and  closing  with  Lamia,  includes,  besides 
those  poems  and  The  Eve  of  St.  Agnes,  the 
great  Odes,  Fancy,  and  some  of  the  notable 
Sonnets.  The  division,  besides  being  a  con- 
venient one,  seems  almost  logical  and  not 
merely  chronological. 

They  could  not  sit  at  meals  but  feel  how 

well 

It  soothed  each  to  be  the  other  by; 
They  could  not,  sure,  beneath   the   same 

roof  sleep 
But  to  each  other  dream,  and  nightly  weep. 

II 

With  every  morn  their  love  grew  tenderer, 

With  every  eve  deeper  and  tenderer  still ; 

He  might  not  in   house,  field,  or   garden 

stir, 
But  her  full  shape  would  all  his  seeing 

fill; 
And  his  continual  voice  was  pleasanter 

To  her,  than  noise  of  trees  or  hidden  rill; 
Her  lute-string  gave  an  echo  of  his  name, 
She  spoilt  her  half-done  broidery  with  the 
same. 

in 
He  knew  whose  gentle  hand  was  at  the 

latch, 
Before    the   door   had  given  her1  to  his 

eyes; 
And  from  her  chamber-window  he  would 

catch 

Her  beauty  farther  than  the  falcon  spies; 
And   constant   as   her    vespers    would    he 

watch, 
Because  her  face  was  turn'd  to  the  same 

skies ; 
And  with  sick  longing  all  the  night  out' 

wear, 
To  hear  her  morning-step  upon  the  stair. 


ISABELLA,    OR   THE    POT   OF   BASIL 


in 


IV 

A  whole  long  month  of  May  in  this  sad 

plight 
Made  their  cheeks  paler  by  the  break  of 

June: 
'  To-morrow  will  I  bow  to  my  delight, 

To-morrow  will  I  ask  my  lady's  boon.'  - 
'  O  may  I  never  see  another  night, 

Lorenzo,  if  thy  lips  breathe  not  love's 

tune.'  — 

So  spake  they  to  their  pillows ;  but,  alas, 
Honeyless  days  and  days  did  he  let  pass ; 


Until  sweet  Isabella's  untouch'd  cheek 
Fell  sick  within  the  rose's  just  domain, 

Fell  thin  as  a  young  mother's,  who  doth 

seek 
By  every  lull  to  cool  her  infant's  pain: 

'  How   ill   she   is ! '   said   he,   '  I  may  not 


And  yet  I  will,  and  tell  my  love  all  plain : 
If  looks  speak  love-laws,  I  will  drink  her 

tears, 
And  at  the  least  }t  will   startle   off    her 

cares.' 

VI 
So  said  he  one  fair  morning,  and  all  day 

His  heart  beat  awfully  against  his  side ; 
And  to  his  heart  he  inwardly  did  pray 
For  power  to  speak;  but  still  the  ruddy 

tide 

Stifled  his  voice,  and  pulsed  resolve  away  — 

Fever'd  his  high  conceit  of  such  a  bride, 

Yet   brought   him  to   the  meekness  of   a 

child: 
Alas!  when  passion  is  both  meek  and  wild  ! 

VII 

So  once  more  he  had  waked  and  anguished 
A  dreary  night  of  love  and  misery, 

If  Isabel's  quick  eye  had  not  been  wed 
To  every  symbol  on  his  forehead  high: 

She  saw  it  waxing  very  pale  and  dead, 
And  straight  all  flush'd;  so,  lisped  ten- 
derly, 


'  Lorenzo  ! '  —  here  she    ceased  her  timid 

quest, 
But  in  her  tone  and  look  he  read  the  rest. 

VIII 

1 0  Isabella,  I  can  half  perceive 

That  I  may  speak  my  grief  into  thine  ear; 
If  thou  didst  ever  any  thing  believe, 

Believe  how  I   love   thee,  believe   how 

near 
My  soul  is  to  its  doom:  I  would  not  grieve 

Thy  hand  by  unwelcome  pressing,  would 

not  fear 

Thine  eyes  by  gazing;  but  I  cannot  live 
Another  night,  and  not  my  passion  shrive. 

IX 

'  Love  !  thou  art  leading  me  from  wintry 

cold, 

Lady  !  thou  leadest  me  to  summer  clime, 
And  I  must  taste  the  blossoms  that  unfold 
In  its  ripe  warmth  this  gracious  morning 

time.' 

So  said,  his  erewhile  timid  lips  grew  bold, 
And  poesied  with  hers  in  dewy  rhyme: 
Great  bliss  was  with  them,  and  great  hap- 
piness 
Grew,  like  a  lusty  flower  in  June's  caress. 


Parting  they  seem'd  to  tread  upon  the  air, 
Twin  roses  by  the  zephyr  blown  apart 

Only  to  meet  again  more  close,  and  share 
The  inward   fragrance  of   each   other's 
heart. 

She,  to  her  chamber  gone,  a  ditty  fair 
Sang,  of  delicious  love  and  honey'd  dart; 

He  with  light  steps  went  up  a  western  hill, 

And  bade  the  sun  farewell,  and  joy'd  his 
fill. 

XI 

All  close  they  met  again,  before  the  dusk 
Had  taken   from  the  stars  its  pleasant 

veil, 

All  close  they  met,  all  eves,  before  the  dusk 
Had  taken  from  the  stars  its  pleasant 
veil, 


112 


THE   POEMS   OF   1818-1819 


Close  in  a  bower  of  hyacinth  and  musk, 
Unknown  of  any,  free  from  whispering 

tale. 

Ah  !  better  had  it  been  for  ever  so, 
Than   idle  ears   should   pleasure   in   their 
woe. 

XII 

Were    they  unhappy   then  ?  —  It  cannot 

be  — 
Too   many  tears   for  lovers    have  been 

shed, 

Too  many  sighs  give  we  to  them  in  fee, 
Too  much  of  pity  after  they  are  dead, 
Too  many  doleful  stories  do  we  see, 

Whose  matter  in  bright  gold  were  best 

be  read; 
Except   in   such   a   page   where    Theseus' 

spouse 
Over  the  pathless  waves  towards  him  bows. 

XIII 

But,  for  the  general  award  of  love, 

The  little  sweet  doth  kill  much  bitter- 
ness; 

Though  Dido  silent  is  in  under-grove, 
And  Isabella's  was  a  great  distress, 
Though   young   Lorenzo   in  warm    Indian 

clove 
Was  not  embalm'd,  this  truth  is  not  the 

less  — 

Even  bees,  the  little  almsmen  of   spring- 
bowers, 

Know    there    is   richest    juice   in   poison- 
flowers. 

XIV 

With  her  two  brothers  this  fair  lady  dwelt, 
Enriched  from  ancestral  merchandise, 

And  for  them  many  a  weary  hand  did  swelt 
In  torched  mines  and  noisy  factories, 

And  many  once   proud-quiver'd   loins  did 

melt 

In   blood   from    stinging   whip;  —  with 
hollow  eyes 

Many  all  day  in  dazzling  river  stood, 

To  take  the  rich-ored  driftings  of  the  flood. 


xv 

For  them  the  Ceylon  diver  held  his  breath, 

And  went  all  naked  to  the  hungry  shark ; 

For  them  his  ears  gush'd  blood ;  for  them 

in  death 
The  seal  on  the   cold  ice   with  piteous 

bark 
Lay   full   of   darts;    for   them    alone   did 

seethe 
A  thousand   men  in  troubles  wide  and 

dark: 

Half -ignorant,  they  turn'd  an  easy  wheel, 
That  set  sharp  racks  at  work,  to  pinch  and 
peel. 

XVI 

Why  were    they    proud  ?      Because   their 

marble  founts 
Gush'd    with    more    pride    than    do    a 

wretch's  tears  ?  — 
Why   were   they    proud  ?      Because    fair 

orange-mounts 
Were  of   more    soft   ascent   than   lazar 

stairs  ?  — 

Why   were    they   proud  ?      Because   red- 
lined  accounts 
Were  richer  than  the  songs  of  Grecian 

years  ?  — 
Why   were    they   proud  ?    again   we    ask 

aloud, 
Why   in   the   name   of    Glory   were   they 

proud  ? 

XVII 

Yet  were  these  Florentines  as  self-retired 
In  hungry  pride  and  gainful  cowardice, 
As  two  close  Hebrews  in  that  land  inspired, 
Paled  in  and  vineyarded  from  beggar- 
spies; 
The  hawks  of  ship-mast  forests  —  the  uii- 

tired 
And  pannier 'd  mules  for  ducats  and  old 

lies  — 

Quick  cat's-paws  on   the   generous   stray- 
away,  — 
Great  wits  in  Spanish,  Tuscan,  and  Malay. 


ISABELLA,   OR   THE   POT   OF   BASIL 


XVIII 

How  was  it  these  same  ledger-men  could 

spy 

Fair  Isabella  in  her  downy  nest  ? 
How  could  they  find  out  in  Lorenzo's  eye 
A  straying  from  his  toil  ?     Hot  Egypt's 

pest 
Into  their  vision  covetous  and  sly  ! 

How  could  these  money-bags   see   east 

and  west  ?  — 

Yet  so  they  did  —  and  every  dealer  fair 
Must  see  behind,  as  doth  the  hunted  hare. 

XIX 

O  eloquent  and  famed  Boccaccio  ! 

Of  thee  we  now  should   ask   forgiving 

boon, 
And  of  thy  spicy  myrtles  as  they  blow, 

And  of  thy  roses  amorous  of  the  moon, 
And  of  thy  lilies,  that  do  paler  grow 

Now  they  can  no  more  hear  thy  ghittern's 

tune, 

For  venturing  syllables  that  ill  beseem 
The  quiet  glooms  of  such  a  piteous  theme. 

XX 

Grant  thou  a  pardon  here,  and  then  the  tale 
Shall  move  on  soberly,  as  it  is  meet; 

There  is  no  other  crime,  no  mad  assail 
To   make   old  prose  in   modern  rhyme 
more  sweet: 

But  it  is  done  —  succeed  the  verse  or  fail  — 
To   honour   thee,    and   thy   gone    spirit 
greet; 

To  stead  thee  as  a  verse  in  English  tongue, 

An  echo  of  thee  in  the  north-wind  sung. 

XXI 

These    brethren    having   found    by   many 

signs 

What  love  Lorenzo  for  their  sister  had, 
And  how  she  loved  him  too,  each  unconfines 
His  bitter  thoughts  to  other,  well-nigh 

mad 

That  he,  the  servant  of  their  trade  designs, 
Should  in  tneir  sister's  love  be  blithe  and 


When  't  was  their  plan  to  coax  her  by  de- 
grees 
To  some  high  noble  and  his  olive-trees. 

XXII 

And  many  a  jealous  conference  had  they, 
And  many  times  they  bit  their  lips  alone, 

Before  they  fix'd  upon  a  surest  way 

To   make  the  youngster  for   his  crime 
atone ; 

And  at  the  last,  these  men  of  cruel  clay 
Cut  Mercy  with  a  sharp  knife  to  the  bone; 

For  they  resolved  in  some  forest  dim 

To  kill  Lorenzo,  and  there  bury  him. 

XXIII 

So  on  a  pleasant  morning,  as  he  leant 
Into  the  sunrise,  o'er  the  balustrade 

Of   the  garden-terrace,  towards  him  they 

bent 

Their  footing  through  the  dews;  and  to 
him  said, 

'  You  seem  there  in  the  quiet  of  content, 
Lorenzo,  and  we  are  most  loth  to  invade 

Calm  speculation;  but  if  you  are  wise, 

Bestride  your  steed  while  cold  is  in  the  skies. 

XXIV 

'  To-day   we    purpose,  aye,  this  hour   we 

mount 
To  spur  three  leagues  towards  the  Apen- 

nine; 
Come  down,  we  pray  thee,  ere  the  hot  sun 

count 

His  dewy  rosary  on  the  eglantine.' 
Lorenzo,  courteously  as  he  was  wont, 
Bow'd  a  fair  greeting  to  these  serpents' 

whine ; 

And  went  in  haste,  to  get  in  readiness, 
With  belt,  and   spur,  and   bracing  hunts- 
man's dress. 

xxv 

And  as  he  to  the  court-yard  pass'd  along, 
Each  third  step  did  he  pause,  and  lis- 

ten'd  oft 

If  he  could  hear  his  lady's  matin-song, 
Or  the  light  whisper  of  her  footstep  soft; 


THE   POEMS   OF   1818-1819 


And  as  he  thus  over  his  passion  hung, 
He  heard  a  laugh  full  musical  aloft; 
When,   looking   up,  he   saw   her   features 

bright 
Smile  through  an  in-door  lattice,  all  delight. 

XXVI 

'  Love,  Isabel! '  said  he,  '  I  was  in  pain 
Lest  I  should  miss  to  bid  thee  a  good 

morrow: 
Ah  !  what  if  I  should  lose  thee,  when  so 

fain 

I  am  to  stifle  all  the  heavy  sorrow 
Of  a  poor  three  hours'  absence  ?  but  we  '11 

gain 
Out  of  the  amorous  dark  what  day  doth 

borrow. 
Good  bye  !     I'll  soon  be  back.'  —  «  Good 

bye  ! '  said  she :  — 
And  as  he  went  she  chanted  merrily. 

XXVII 

So  the  two  brothers  and  their  murder 'd 

man 
Rode  past  fair  Florence,  to  where  Arno's 

stream 
Gurgles  through  straighten'd   banks,  and 

still  doth  fan 
Itself   with   dancing    bulrush,    and    the 

bream 
Keeps  head  against  the  freshets.     Sick  and 

wan 

The  brothers'  faces  in  the  ford  did  seem, 
Lorenzo's  flush  with  love.  —  They  pass'd  the 

water 
Into  a  forest  quiet  for  the  slaughter. 

XXVIII 

There  was  Lorenzo  slain  and  buried  in, 
There  in  that  forest  did  his  great  love 

cease;  - 
Ah  !   when  a  soul  doth  thus  its  freedom 

win, 

It  aches  in  loneliness  —  is  ill  at  peace 
A.S  the  break-covert  bloodhounds  of  such 

sin: 

They  dipp'd  their  swords  in  the  water, 
and  did  tease 


Their   horses    homeward,  with    convulsed 

spur, 
Each  richer  by  his  being  a  murderer. 

XXIX 

They  told   their  sister  how,  with  sudden 
speed, 

Lorenzo  had  ta'en  ship  for  foreign  lands, 
Because  of  some  great  urgency  and  need 

In  their  affairs,  requiring  trusty  hands. 
Poor  Girl !  put  on  thy  stifling  widow's  weed, 

And  'scape  at  once  from  Hope's  accursed 

bands ; 

To-day  thou  wilt  not  see  him,  nor  to-morrow, 
And  the  next  day  will  be  a  day  of  sorrow. 

xxx 
She  weeps  alone  for  pleasures  not  to  be; 

Sorely  she  wept  until  the  night  came  on, 
And  then,  instead  of  love,  O  misery  ! 

She  brooded  o'er  the  luxury  alone: 
His  image  in  the  dusk  she  seem'd  to  see, 

And  to  the  silence  made  a  gentle  moan, 
Spreading  her  perfect  arms  upon  the  air, 
And     on     her     couch     low     murmuring, 
« Where?     O  where?' 

XXXI 

But  Selfishness,  Love's  cousin,  held  not  long 
Its  fiery  vigil  in  her  single  breast; 

She  fretted  for  the  golden  hour,  and  hung 
Upon  the  time  with  feverish  unrest  — 

Not  long  —  for  soon  into  her  heart  a  throng 
Of  higher  occupants,  a  richer  zest, 

Came  tragic;  passion  not  to  be  subdued, 

And  sorrow  for  her  love  in  travels  rude. 

XXXII 

In  the  mid  days  of  autumn,  on  their  eves 
The  breath  of  Winter  comes  from  far 
away, 

And  the  sick  west  continually  bereaves 
Of  some  gold  tinge,  and  plays  a  rounde- 
lay 

Of  death  among  the  bushes  and  the  leaves, 
To  make  all  bare  before  he  dares  to  stray 

From  his  north  cavern.     So  sweet  Isabel 

By  gradual  decay  from  beauty  fell, 


ISABELLA,   OR   THE   POT   OF   BASIL 


XXXIII 

Because  Lorenzo  came  not.     Oftentimes 
She  ask'd  her  brothers,  with  an  eye  all 

pale, 

Striving  to  be  itself,  what  dungeon  climes 
Could  keep  him  off  so  long  ?     They  spake 

a  tale 
Time   after    time,   to   quiet   her.       Their 

crimes 
Came  on  them,  like  a  smoke  from  Hiu- 

nom's  vale; 
And  every  night  in  dreams  they  groan'd 

aloud, 
To  see  their  sister  in  her  snowy  shroud. 

XXXIV 

And  she  had  died  in  drowsy  ignorance, 
But  for  a  thing  more  deadly  dark  than 

all; 
It  came   like   a   fierce   potion,   drunk   by 

chance, 
Which  saves  a  sick  man  from  the  feath- 

er'd  pall 
For   some   few  gasping   moments;  like   a 

lance, 

Waking  an  Indian  from  his  cloudy  hall 
With  cruel  pierce,  and  bringing  him  again 
Sense  of   the  gnawing  fire  at   heart  and 
brain. 

xxxv 

It  was  a  vision.  —  In  the  drowsy  gloom, 
The  dull  of  midnight,  at  her  couch's  foot 

Lorenzo  stood,  and  wept:  the  forest  tomb 
Had  marr'd  his  glossy  hair  which  once 
could  shoot 

Lustre  into  the  sun,  and  put  cold  doom 
Upon  his  lips,  and  taken  the  soft  lute 

From  his  lorn  voice,  and  past  his  loamed 
ears 

Had  made  a  miry  channel  for  his  tears. 

xxxvi 

Strange  sound  it  was,  when  the  pale  shadow 

spake; 

For  there   was   striving,  in   its   piteous 
tongue, 


To  speak  as  when  on  earth  it  was  awake, 

And  Isabella  on  its  music  hung: 
Languor  there   was   in   it,  and   tremulous 

shake, 

As  in'a  palsied  Druid's  harp  unstrung; 
And  through  it  moan'd  a  ghostly  under- 
song, 

Like  hoarse  night-gusts   sepulchral  briars 
among. 

XXXVII 

Its  eyes,  though  wild,  were  still  all  dewy 

bright 
With  love,  and  kept  all   phantom  fear 

aloof 

From  the  poor  girl  by  magic  of  their  light, 
The   while   it  did  unthread  the  horrid 

woof 

Of  the  late  darken' d  time,  —  the  murder- 
ous spite 
Of  pride  and  avarice,  —  the   dark  pine 

roof 
In    the   forest,  —  and   the   sodden    turfed 

dell, 
Where,  without  any  word,  from  stabs  he 

fell. 

XXXVIII 

Saying  moreover,  *  Isabel,  my  sweet ! 
Red    whortleberries     droop    above    my 

head, 
And  a  large  flint-stone   weighs  upon  my 

feet; 
Around  me  beeches  and  high  chestnuts 

shed 
Their  leaves  and  prickly  nuts ;  a  sheepf old 

bleat 

Comes  from  beyond  the  river  to  my  bed: 
Go,  shed  one  tear  upon  my  heather-bloom, 
And  it  shall  comfort  me  within  the  tomb. 

xxxix 

*  I  am  a  shadow  now,  alas  !  alas  ! 

Upon  the  skirts  of  human  nature  dwell- 
ing 
Alone :  I  chant  alone  the  holy  mass, 

While  little  sounds  of  life  are  round  me 
knelling, 


n6 


THE   POEMS   OF    1818-1819 


And  glossy  bees  at  noon  do  fieldward  pass, 
And  many  a  chapel  bell  the  hour  is  tell- 
ing* 

Paining  me  through:  those  sounds  grow 
strange  to  me, 

And  thou  art  distant  in  Humanity. 

XL 

'  I  know  what  was,  I  feel  full  well  what  is, 
And  I  should  rage,  if  spirits  could  go 

mad; 

Though  I  forget  the  taste  of  earthly  bliss, 
That    paleness    warms    my    grave,    as 

though  I  had 

A  Seraph  chosen  from  the  bright  abyss 
To  be  my  spouse:  thy  paleness  makes 

me  glad; 

Thy  beauty  grows  upon  me,  and  I  feel 
A    greater  love  through  all  my  essence 
steal.' 

XLI 

The  Spirit  mourn'd  *  Adieu  ! '  —  dissolved, 

and  left 

The  atom  darkness  in  a  slow  turmoil; 
As  when  of  healthful  midnight  sleep  be- 
reft, 
Thinking  on  rugged  hours  and  fruitless 

toil, 

We  put  our  eyes  into  a  pillowy  cleft, 
And  see  the  spangly  gloom  froth  up  and 

boil: 

It  made  sad  Isabella's  eyelids  ache, 
And  in  the  dawn  she  started  up  awake 

XLII 
«  Ha  !  ha  ! '  said  she,  '  I  knew  not  this  hard 

life, 

I  thought  the  worst  was  simple  misery; 
I  thought  some  Fate  with  pleasure  or  with 

strife 
Portion'd  us  —  happy  days,  or   else   to 

die; 
But  there  is  crime — a   brother's   bloody 

knife  ! 

Sweet  Spirit,  thou  hast  school'd  my  in- 
fancy : 

I  '11  visit  thee  for  this,  and  kiss  thine  eyes, 
A.nd  greet  thee  morn  and  even  in  the  skies.' 


XLIII 

When  the  full  morning  came,  she  had  de- 
vised 

How  she  might  secret  to  the  forest  hie; 
How  she    might  find  the  clay,  so  dearly 

prized, 

And  sing  to  it  one  latest  lullaby; 
How  her  short  absence  might   be   unsur- 

mised, 
While  she  the  inmost  of  the  dream  would 

try. 

Resolved,  she  took  with  her  an  aged  nurse, 
And  went  into  that  dismal  forest-hearse. 

XLIV 

See,  as  they  creep  along  the  river  side, 
How   she   doth   whisper    to    that   aged 

Dame, 
And,  after  looking  round   the  champaign 

wide, 
Shows   her   a   knife.  — '  What  feverous 

hectic  flame 
Burns   in   thee,    child?  —  what   good   can 

thee  betide, 
That   thou    shouldst    smile    again?'  — 

The  evening  came, 

And  they  had  found  Lorenzo's  earthy  bed; 
The  flint  was  there,  the  berries  at  his  head. 

XLV 

Who  hath  not  loiter'd  in  a  green  church- 
yard, 

And  let  his  spirit,  like  a  demon-mole, 
Work  through  the  clayey  soil  and  gravel 

hard, 
To  see  skull,  coffin'd  bones,  and  funeral 

stole; 
Pitying  each  form  that  hungry  Death  hath 

marr'd, 

And  filling  it  once  more  with  human  soul  ? 
Ah  !  this  is  holiday  to  what  was  felt 
When  Isabella  by  Lorenzo  knelt. 

XLVI 
She  gazed  into  the  fresh-thrown  mould,  as 

though 
One  glance  did  fully  all  its  secrets  tell; 


ISABELLA,   OR   THE   POT   OF   BASIL 


117 


Clearly  she  saw,  as  other  eyes  would  know 
Pale  limbs  at  bottom  of  a  crystal  well; 

Upon  the  murderous  spot  she   seem'd  to 

grow, 
Like  to  a  native  lily  of  the  dell : 

Then  with  her  knife,  all  sudden,  she  began 

To  dig  more  fervently  than  misers  can. 

XLVII 

Soon  she  turn'd  up  a  soiled  glove,  whereon 
Her  silk  had  play'd  in  purple  phanta- 
sies: 
She   kiss'd   it  with  a  lip  more  chill  than 

stone, 

And  put  it  in  her  bosom,  where  it  dries 
And  freezes  utterly  unto  the  bone 

Those  dainties  made  to  still  an  infant's 

cries; 
Then  'gan  she  work  again;  nor  stay'd  her 

care, 
But  to  throw  back  at  times  her  veiling  hair. 

XLVIII 

That  old  nurse  stood  beside  her  wonder- 
ing, 

Until  her  heart  felt  pity  to  the  core 
At  sight  of  such  a  dismal  labouring, 

And  so  she  kneeled,  with  her  locks  all 

hoar, 
And   put  her   lean   hands   to    the   horrid 

thing: 
Three  hours  they  labour'd  at  this  travail 

sore: 

At  last  they  felt  the  kernel  of  the  grave, 
And  Isabella  did  not  stamp  and  rave. 

XLIX 

Ah !    wherefore    all   this    wormy   circum- 
stance ? 
Why   linger   at   the   yawning   tomb    so 

long? 
O  for  the  gentleness  of  old  Romance, 

The  simple  plaining  of  a  minstrel's  song  ! 
Fair  reader,  at  the  old  tale  take  a  glance, 
For  here,  in  truth,  it  doth  not  well  be- 
long 

To  speak :  —  O  turn  thee  to  the  very  tale, 
And  taste  the  music  of  that  vision  pale. 


With  duller  steel  than  the  Persian  sword 
They  cut   away   no   formless   monster's 

head, 

But  one,  whose  gentleness  did  well  accord 
With  death,  as  life.     The  ancient  harps 

have  said, 
Love  never  dies,  but  lives,  immortal  Lord: 

If  Love  impersonate  was  ever  dead, 
Pale  Isabella  kiss'd  it,  and  low  moan'd. 
'Twas  love;  cold,  —  dead  indeed,  but  not 
dethron'd. 

LI 
In  anxious  secrecy  they  took  it  home, 

And  then  the  prize  was  all  for  Isabel: 
She  calm'd  its  wild  hair  with  a  golden 

comb, 

And  all  around  each  eye's  sepulchral  cell 
Pointed  each  fringed   lash;  the   smeared 

loam 

With  tears,  as  chilly  as  a  dripping  well, 
She  drench'd  away:  and  still  she  comb'd, 

and  kept 

Sighing  all  day  —  and  still  she  kiss'd  and 
wept. 

LII 

Then  in  a  silken  scarf,  —  sweet  with  the 

dews 

Of  precious  flowers  pluck'd  in  Araby, 
And  divine  liquids  come  with  odorous  ooze 
Through  the  cold  serpent-pipe  refresh- 

fully,  - 
She  wrapp'd  it  up;   and  for  its  tomb  did 

choose 

A  garden-pot,  wherein  she  laid  it  by, 
And  cover'd  it  with  mould,  and  o'er  it  set 
Sweet  Basil,  which  her  tears  kept  ever  wet. 

LIU 

And  she  forgot  the  stars,  the  moon,  and 

sun, 

And  she  forgot  the  blue  above  the  trees, 
And   she   forgot   the    dells   where   waters 

run, 
And  she  forgot  the  chilly  autumn  breeze ; 


n8 


THE   POEMS   OF    1818-1819 


She  had  no  knowledge  when  the  day  was 

done, 
And  the  new  morn  she  saw  not:  but  in 

peace 

Hung  over  her  sweet  Basil  evermore, 
And  moisten'd  it  with  tears  unto  the  core. 

LIV 

And  so  she  ever  fed  it  with  thin  tears, 
Whence  thick,  and  green,  and  beautiful 

it  grew, 
So  that  it  smelt  more  balmy  than  its  peers 

Of  Basil-tufts  in  Florence;  for  it  drew 
Nurture    besides,   and   life,    from    human 

fears, 
From  the  fast   mouldering  head  there 

shut  from  view: 

So  that  the  jewel,  safely  casketed, 
Came  forth,  and  in  perfumed  leafits  spread. 

LV 

O  Melancholy,  linger  here  awhile  ! 

O  Music,  Music,  breathe  despondingly  ! 
O  Echo,  Echo,  from  some  sombre  isle, 

Unknown,  Lethean,  sigh  to  us  —  O  sigh  ! 
Spirits   in   grief,  lift   up  your   heads,  and 
smile; 

Lift  up  your  heads,  sweet  Spirits,  heavily, 
And  make  a  pale   light   in  your   cypress 

glooms, 
Tinting  with  silver  wan  your  marble  tombs. 

LVI 

Moan  hither,  all  ye  syllables  of  woe, 

From  the  deep  throat  of  sad  Melpomene  ! 

Through  bronzed  lyre  in  tragic  order  go, 
And  touch  the  strings  into  a  mystery; 

Sound  mournfully  upon  the  winds  and  low; 
For  simple  Isabel  is  soon  to  be 

Among  the  dead:  She  withers,  like  a  palm 

Cut  by  an  Indian  for  its  juicy  balm. 

LVII 

O  leave  the  palm  to  wither  by  itself; 

Let  not  quick   Winter   chill   its  dying 

hour !  — 
It  may  not  be  —  those  Baalites  of  pelf, 

Her  brethren,  noted  the  continual  shower 


From  her  dead  eyes;  and  many  a  curious 

elf, 
Among  her  kindred,  wonder'd  that  such 

dower 

Of  youth  and  beauty  should  be  thrown  aside 
By  one  mark'd  out  to  be  a  Noble's  bride. 

LVIII 
And,  furthermore,  her  brethren  wonder'd 

much 

Why  she  sat  drooping  by  the  Basil  green, 
And  why  it  flourish'd,  as  by  magic  touch; 
Greatly  they  wonder'd  what  the  thing 

might  mean: 

They  could  not  surely  give  belief,  that  such 
A   very  nothing   would    have    power  to 

wean 
Her  from  her  own  fair  youth ,  and  pleasures 

gay, 
And  even  remembrance  of  her  love's  delay. 

LIX 
Therefore  they  watch'd  a  time  when  they 

might  sift 
This  hidden  whim ;  and  long  they  watch'd 

in  vain; 

For  seldom  did  she  go  to  chapel-shrift, 
And  seldom  felt  she  any  hunger-pain: 
And  when  she  left,  she   hurried  back,  as 

swift 

As  bird  on  wing  to  breast  its  eggs  again : 
And,  patient  as  a  hen-bird,  sat  her  there 
Beside  her  Basil,  weeping  through  her  hair. 

LX 

Yet  they  contrived  to  steal  the  Basil-pot, 

And  to  examine  it  in  secret  place: 
The  thing  was  vile  with  green  and  livid 

spot, 

And  yet  they  knew  it  was  Lorenzo's  face: 
The  guerdon  of  their  murder  they  had  got, 
And  so  left  Florence  in  a  moment's  space, 
Never  to  turn  again.  —  Away  they  went, 
With  blood  upon  their  heads,  to  banishment. 

LXI 

0  Melancholy,  turn  thine  eyes  away  ! 
O  Music,  Music,  breathe  despondingly  ! 


FRAGMENT   OF   AN   ODE   TO   MAIA 


119 


0  Echo,  Echo,  on  some  other  day, 

From    isles    Lethean,   sigh    to    us  —  O 


Spirits   of   grief,  sing   not  your   '  Well-a- 
way !' 

For  Isabel,  sweet  Isabel,  will  die; 
Will  die  a  death  too  lone  and  incomplete, 
Now  they  have  ta'en  away  her  Basil  sweet. 

LXII 
Piteous  she  look'd  on  dead  and  senseless 

things, 

Asking  for  her  lost  Basil  amorously: 
And  with  melodious  chuckle  in  the  strings 
Of  her  lorn  voice,  she  oftentimes  would 

cry 
After  the  Pilgrim  in  his  wanderings, 

To  ask  him  where  her  Basil  was ;  and  why 
'T was  hid  from  her:  'For  cruel  'tis,'  said 

she, 
'  To  steal  my  Basil-pot  away  from  me.' 

LXIII 

And  so  she  pined,  and  so  she  died  forlorn, 
Imploring  for  her  Basil  to  the  last. 

No  heart  was  there   in  Florence   but  did 

mourn 
In  pity  of  her  love,  so  overcast. 

And  a  sad  ditty  of  this  story  born 

From  mouth  to  mouth  through  all  the 
country  pass'd  : 

Still  is  the  burthen  sung  — «  O  cruelty, 

To  steal  my  Basil-pot  away  from  me  ! ' 


TO    HOMER 

The  date  1818  was  affixed  to  this  by  Lord 
Houghton  in  Life,  Letters  and  Literary  Re- 
mains, where  it  was  first  published,  and  is  found 
also  where  it  occurs  in  the  Dilke  manuscripts. 
In  a  letter  to  Reynolds,  dated  April  27,  1818, 
Keats  writes  eagerly  of  his  desire  to  study 
Greek. 

STANDING  aloof  in  giant  ignorance, 
Of  thee  I  hear  and  of  the  Cyclades, 

A-S  one  who  sits  ashore  and  longs  perchance 
To  visit  dolphin-coral  in  deep  seas. 


So  thou  wast  blind  !  —  but  thea   the  veil 

was  rent, 
For  Jove  uncurtain'd  Heaven  to  let  thee 

live, 

And  Neptune  made  for  thee  a  spumy  tent, 
And  Pan  made  sing  for  thee  his  forest- 
hive; 
Ay  on  the    shores   of  darkness   there   is 

light, 

And  precipices  show  untrodden  green; 
There  is  a  budding  morrow  in  midnight; 
There    is    a    triple    sight    in    blindness 

keen: 

Such  seeing  hadst  thou,  as  it  once  befell 
To  Dian,  Queen  of  Earth,  and   Heaven, 
and  Hell. 


FRAGMENT   OF   AN    ODE   TO 
MAIA 

Copied  in  a  letter  to  Reynolds,  dated  May  3, 
1818,  in  which  Keats  says  :  '  With  respect  to 
the  affections  and  Poetry  you  must  know  by  a 
sympathy  my  thoughts  that  way,  and  I  dare 
say  these  few  lines  will  be  but  a  ratification :  I 
wrote  them  on  May  day  —  and  intend  to  finish 
the  ode  all  in  good  time ;  '  a  purpose  appar- 
ently never  accomplished. 

MOTHER  of   Hermes !   and   still  youthful 

Maia! 

May  I  sing  to  thee 
As   thou   wast  hymned  on  the   shores   of 

Baiae  ? 

Or  may  I  woo  thee 
In  earlier  Sicilian  ?  or  thy  smiles 
Seek  as  they  once  were  sought,  in  Grecian 

isles, 
By  bards  who   died   content   on   pleasant 

sward, 

Leaving  great  verse  unto  a  little  clan  ? 
O,  give  me  their  old  vigour,  and  unheard 
Save  of  the  quiet  Primrose,  and  the  span 

Of  heaven  and  few  ears, 
Rounded  by  thee,  my  song  should  die  away 

Content  as  theirs, 
Rich  in  the  simple  worship  of  a  day. 


120 


THE   POEMS   OF   1818-1819 


SONG 

First  published  in  Life,  Letters  and  Literary 
Remains,  and  there  dated  1818. 


HUSH,  hush  !  tread  softly  !  hush,  hush,  my 

dear  ! 
All  the  house  is  asleep,  but  we  know  very 

well 
That  the  jealous,  the  jealous  old  bald-pate 

may  hear, 
Tho'  you  've  padded  his   night-cap  —  O 

sweet  Isabel  ! 
Tho'  your  feet  are  more  light  than  a 

Faery's  feet, 

Who  dances  on  bubbles  where  brook- 
lets meet, — 
Hush,  hush  !    soft  tiptoe  !   hush,  hush,  my. 

dear  ! 

For  less  than   a  nothing  the  jealous  can 
hear. 


No  leaf  doth  tremble,  no  ripple  is  there 
On  the  river,  —  all 's  still,  and  the  night's 

sleepy  eye 
Closes    up,  and    forgets    all    its    Lethean 

care, 
Charm'd  to  death  by  the  drone  of   the 

humming  May-fly ; 
And   the   Moon,  whether  prudish   or 

complaisant, 
Has  fled  to  her  bower,  well  knowing  I 

want 

No  light  in  the  dusk,  no  torch  in  the  gloom, 
But  my  Isabel's  eyes,  and  her  lips  pulp'd 
with  bloom. 

ill 
Lift  the  latch  !  ah  gently  !  ah  tenderly  — 

sweet  ! 
We  are  dead  if  that  latchet  gives  one 

little  clink  ! 
Well  done  —  now  those  lips,  and  a  flowery 

seat  — 

The  old  man  may  sleep,  and  the  planets 
may  wink; 


The  shut  rose  shall  dream  of  our  loves 

and  awake 
Full-blown,  and  such  warmth  for  the 

morning  take, 
The  stock-dove  shall  hatch  her  soft  brace 

and  shall  coo, 

While   I   kiss   to   the   melody,   aching  all 
through. 


VERSES  WRITTEN    DURING  A 
TOUR   IN    SCOTLAND 

Keats  saw  his  brother  George  and  wife  set 
sail  from  Liverpool  at  the  end  of  June,  1818, 
and  then  set  forth  with  his  friend  Charles 
Armitage  Brown  on  a  walking  tour  through 
Wordsworth's  country  and  into  Scotland.  The 
verses  included  in  this  section  were  all  sent  in 
letters,  chiefly  to  his  brother  Tom.  He  did  not 
include  any  in  the  volume  which  he  published 
in  1820,  and  they  first  saw  the  light  when  Lord 
Houghton  included  them  in  the  Life,  Letters 
and  Literary  Remains.  The  more  off-hand  and 
familiar  verses  written  at  this  time  are  given  in 
the  Appendix. 


ON   VISITING   THE   TOMB    OF   BURNS 

Written  at  Dumfries  on  the  evening  of  July 
1,  1818.  '  Burns's  tomb,'  writes  Keats,  '  is  in 
the  Churchyard  corner,  not  very  much  to  my 
taste,  though  on  a  scale  large  enough  to  show 
they  wanted  to  honour  him.  This  Sonnet  I  have 
•written  in  a  strange  mood,  half  asleep.  I  know 
not  how  it  is,  the  Clouds,  the  Sky,  the  Houses, 
all  seem  anti-Grecian  and  anti-Charlemagnish.' 

THE  Town,  the  churchyard,  and  the  setting 

sun, 
The  Clouds,  the  trees,  the  rounded  hills 

all  seem, 
Though  beautiful,  cold  —  strange  —  as 

in  a  dream, 

I  dreamed  long  ago,  now  new  begun. 
The  short-lived,  paly  Summer  is  but  won 
From   Winter's    ague,    for    one    hour's 

gleam ; 

Though   sapphire-warm,  their   Stars  do 
never  beam: 


VERSES   WRITTEN    DURING   A   TOUR    IN    SCOTLAND     121 


All  is  cold  Beauty;  pain  is  never  done: 
For  who  has  mind  to  relish,  Minos-wise, 
The  Real  of  Beauty,  free  from  that  dead 

hue 

Sickly  imagination  and  sick  pride 
Cast  wan  upon  it  !    Burns  !  with  honour 

due 
I    oft    have    honour'd    thee.      Great 

shadow,  hide 
Thy  face ;  I  sin  against  thy  native  skies. 


TO  AILSA    ROCK 

The  tourists  crossed  to  Ireland  for  a  short 
trip,  and  after  returning  to  Scotland,  made 
their  way  into  Ayrshire,  entering  it  a  little 
beyond  Cairn.  Their  walk  led  them  into 
a  long  wooded  glen.  '  At  the  end,'  writes 
Keats,  July  10, 1818,  '  we  had  a  gradual  ascent 
and  got  among  the  tops  of  the  mountains 
whence  in  a  little  time  I  descried  in  the  Sea 
Ailsa  Rock,  940  feet  high  — it  was  15  Miles 
distant  and  seemed  close  upon  us.  The  effect 
of  Ailsa  with  the  peculiar  perspective  of  the 
Sea  in  connection  with  the  ground  we  stood  on, 
and  the  misty  rain  then  falling  gave  me  a  com- 
plete Idea  of  a  deluge.  Ailsa  struck  me  very 
suddenly  —  really  I  was  a  little  alarmed.' 

HEARKEN,  thou  craggy  ocean  pyramid  ! 
Give    answer   from   thy  voice,  the  sea- 
fowls'  screams  ! 
When   were  thy   shoulders   mantled   in 

huge  streams  ? 

When,  from  the  sun,  was  thy  broad  fore- 
head hid  ? 

How  long  is  't  since  the  mighty  power  bid 
Thee  heave  to  airy  sleep  from  fathom 

dreams  ? 

Sleep  in  the  lap  of  thunder  or  sunbeams, 
Or  when  gray  clouds  are  thy  cold  coverlid. 
Thou  answer'st  not;  for  thou  art  dead 

asleep; 

Thy  life  is  but  two  dead  eternities  — 
The  last  in  air,  the  former  in  the  deep; 
First  with  the  whales,  last  with  the  eagle- 
skies  — 


Drown'd  wast  thou  till  an  earthquake  made 

thee  steep, 
Another  cannot  wake  thy  giant  size. 


Ill 


WRITTEN   IN   THE   COTTAGE   WHERE 
BURNS   WAS   BORN 

From  KingswelTs,  July  13,  1818,  Keats 
wrote  of  his  experience  in  visiting  Burns's 
birthplace  :  '  The  approach  to  it  [Ayr]  is  ex- 
tremely fine  —  quite  outwent  my  expectations 

—  richly  meadowed,  wooded,  heathed  and  riv- 
uleted  —  with   a  grand  Sea  view  terminated 
by  the  black  Mountains  of  the  isle  of  Annan. 
As  soon  as  I  saw  them  so  nearby  I  said  to  my- 
self, "  How  is  it  they  did  not  beckon  Burns 
to  some  grand  attempt  at  Epic  ?  "    The  bonny 
Doon  is  the  sweetest  river  I  ever  saw  —  over- 
hung with  fine  trees  as  far  as  we  could  see 

—  We  stood  some  time  on  the  Brig  across  it, 
over  which  Tarn  o'  Shanter  fled  —  we  took  a 
pinch   of   snuff  on   the   Keystone  —  then   we 
proceeded  to  the  "  auld  Kirk  Alloway."     As 
we  were  looking  at  it  a  Farmer  pointed  the 
spots  where   Mungo's   Mither  hang'd   hersel' 
and  "  drunken  Charlie  brake  's  neck's  bane." 
Then  we  proceeded  to  the  Cottage  he  was  born 
in  —  there  was  a  board  to  that  effect  by  the 
door  side  —  it  had  the  same  effect  as  the  same 
sort  of  memorial  at  Stratford  on  Avon.     We 
drank  some  Toddy  to  Burns's  memory  with  an 
old  Man  who  knew  Burns  —  damn  him   and 
damn  his  anecdotes  —  he  was  a  great  bore  — 
it  was  impossible  for  a  Southron  to  understand 
above   5   words    in   a  hundred.  —  There   was 
something  good  in  his  description  of  Burns's 
melancholy  the  last  time  he  saw  him.     I  was 
determined  to  write  a  sonnet  in  the  Cottage  — 
I  did  —  but  it  was  so  bad  I  cannot  venture  it 
here.'     He  wrote  in  the  same  strain  to  Rey- 
nolds, saying,  '  I  wrote  a  sonnet  for  the  mere 
sake  of  writing  some  lines  under  the  Roof  — 
they  are  so  bad  I  cannot  transcribe  them.  .  .  . 
I  cannot  write  about  scenery  and  visitings  — 
Fancy  is  indeed  less  than  a  present  palpable 
reality,  but  it  is  greater  than  remembrance. 
.  .  .  One  song  of  Burns's  is  of  more  worth  to 
you  than  all  I  could  think  for  a  whole  year  in 
his  native  country.' 


122 


THE   POEMS   OF    1818-1819 


THIS  mortal  body  of  a  thousand  days 
Now  fills,  O  Burns,  a  space  in  thine  own 

room, 
Where  thou  didst  dream  alone  on  budded 


Happy  and   thoughtless  of   thy  day  of 

doom  ! 
My  pulse  is  warm  with  thine  old  Barley- 

bree, 
My  head  is  light  with  pledging  a  great 

soul, 

My  eyes  are  wandering,  and  I  cannot  see, 
Fancy  is  dead  and  drunken  at  its  goal; 
Yet  can  I  stamp  my  foot  upon  thy  floor, 
Yet  can  I  ope  thy  window-sash  to  find 
The  meadow  thou  hast  tramped  o'er  and 

o'er,  — 
Yet  can  I  think  of  thee  till  thought  is 

blind,  — 

Yet  can  I  gulp  a  bumper  to  thy  name,  — 
O  smile  among  the  shades,  for  this  is  fame  ! 


IV 


AT  FINGAL'S  CAVE 

The  verses  which  follow  were  first  printed 
in  Life,  Letters  and  Literary  Remains.  They 
occur  in  a  letter  to  Tom  Keats  from  Oban, 
July  26,  1818,  and  were  preceded  by  this  de- 
scription :  '  I  am  puzzled  how  to  give  you  an 
Idea  of  Staffa.  It  can  only  be  represented  by 
a  first-rate  drawing.  One  may  compare  the 
surface  of  the  Island  to  a  roof  —  this  roof  is 
supported  by  grand  pillars  of  basalt  standing 
together  as  thick  as  honeycombs.  The  finest 
thing  is  Fingal's  cave  —  it  is  entirely  a  hollow- 
ing out  of  Basalt  Pillars.  Suppose  now  the 
Giants  who  rebelled  against  Jove  had  taken  a 
whole  Mass  of  black  Columns  and  bound  them 
together  like  bunches  of  matches  —  and  then 
with  immense  axes  had  made  a  cavern  in  the 
body  of  these  columns  —  Of  course  the  roof 
and  floor  must  be  composed  of  the  broken  ends 
of  the  Columns  —  such  is  Fingal's  cave,  except 
that  the  Sea  has  done  the  work  of  excavations, 
and  is  continually  dashing  there  —  so  that  we 
walk  along  the  sides  of  the  cave  on  the  pillars 
which  are  left  as  if  for  convenient  stairs.  The 


roof  is  arched  somewhat  gothic-wise,  and  the 
length  of  some  of  the  entire  side-pillars  is  fifty 
feet.  About  the  island  you  might  seat  an 
army  of  men  each  on  a  pillar.  The  length  of 
the  Cave  is  120  feet,  and  from  its  extremity 
the  view  into  the  sea,  through  the  large  arch 
at  the  entrance  —  the  colour  of  the  column  is 
a  sort  of  black  with  a  lurking  gloom  of  purple 
therein.  For  solemnity  and  grandeur  it  far 
surpasses  the  finest  Cathedral.  At  the  ex- 
tremity of  the  Cave  there  is  a  small  perfora- 
tion into  another  Cave,  at  which  the  waters 
meeting  and  buffeting  each  other  there  is  some- 
times produced  a  report  as  of  a  cannon  heard  as 
far  as  lona,  which  must  be  12  miles.  As  we 
approached  in  the  boat,  there  was  such  a  fine 
swell  of  the  sea  that  the  pillars  appeared  rising 
immediately  out  of  the  crystal.  But  it  is  im- 
possible to  describe  it.' 

NOT  Aladdin  magian 

Ever  such  a  work  began; 

Not  the  wizard  of  the  Dee 

Ever  such  a  dream  could  see; 

Not  St.  John,  in  Patmos'  isle, 

In  the  passion  of  his  toil, 

When  he  saw  the  churches  seven, 

Golden  aisled,  built  up  in  heaven, 

Gazed  at  such  a  rugged  wonder, 

As  I  stood  its  roofing  under. 

Lo  !  I  saw  one  sleeping  there, 

On  the  marble  cold  and  bare ; 

While  the  surges  wash'd  his  feet, 

And  his  garments  white  did  beat 

Drench'd  about  the  sombre  rocks; 

On  his  neck  his  well-grown  locks, 

Lifted  dry  above  the  main, 

Were  upon  the  curl  again. 

«  What  is  this  ?  and  what  art  thou  ?  ' 

Whisper'd  I,  and  touch'd  his  brow; 

« What  art  thou  ?  and  what  is  this  ?  ' 

Whisper'd  I,  and  strove  to  kiss 

The  spirit's  hand,  to  wake  his  eyes; 

Up  he  started  in  a  trice: 

'  I  am  Lycidas,'  said  he, 

'  Famed  in  funeral  minstrelsy  ! 

This  was  architectured  thus 

By  the  great  Oceanus  !  — 

Here  his  mighty  waters  play 


TO  A  LADY  SEEN  FOR  A  FEW  MOMENTS  AT  VAUXHALL     123 


Hollow  organs  all  the  day ; 

Here,  by  turns,  his  dolphins  all, 

Finny  palmers,  great  and  small, 

Come  to  pay  devotion  due,  — 

Each  a  mouth  of  pearls  must  strew  ! 

Many  a  mortal  of  these  days 

Dares  to  pass  our  sacred  ways; 

Dares  to  touch,  audaciously, 

This  cathedral  of  the  sea  ! 

I  have  been  the  pontiff-priest, 

Where  the  waters  never  rest, 

Where  a  fledgy  sea-bird  choir 

Soars  for  ever  !     Holy  fire 

I  have  hid  from  mortal  man; 

Proteus  is  my  Sacristan  ! 

But  the  dulled  eye  of  mortal 

Hath  pass'd  beyond  the  rocky  portal; 

So  for  ever  will  I  leave 

Such  a  taint,  and  soon  unweave 

All  the  magic  of  the  place.' 

So  saying,  with  a  Spirit's  glance 

He  dived  ! 


WRITTEN  UPON  THE  TOP  OF  BEN  NEVIS 

Enclosed  in   a  letter  to  Tom  Keats  from 
Letter  Findlay,  August  3,  1818. 

READ  me  a  lesson,  Muse,  and  speak  it  loud 

Upon  the  top  of  Nevis,  blind  in  mist  ! 
I  look  into  the  chasms,  and  a  shroud 

Vaporous    doth    hide    them,  —  just    so 

much  I  wist 

Mankind  do  know  of  hell;  I  look  o'erhead, 

And  there  is  sullen  mist,  —  even  so  much 

Mankind  can  tell  of  heaven;  mist  is  spread 

Before   the   earth,  beneath   me,  —  even 

such, 

Even  so  vague  is  man's  sight  of  himself  ! 
Here  are  the  craggy  stones  beneath  my 

feet,  — 

Thus  much  I  know  that,  a  poor  witless  elf, 
I  tread  on  them,  —  that  all  my  eye  doth 

meet 

Is  mist  and  crag,  not  only  on  this  height, 
But  in  the  world  of  thought  and  mental 
might ! 


TRANSLATION  FROM  A  SONNET 
OF  RONSARD 

Published  in  Life,  Letters  and  Literary  Re- 
mains in  a  letter  to  Reynolds,  of  which  the 
probable  date  is  September  22,  1818 ;  in  a  let- 
ter to  Charles  Wentworth  Dilke  September  21, 
1818,  Keats  quotes  the  last  line  with  the  re- 
mark :  '  You  have  passed  your  Romance,  and 
I  never  gave  in  to  it,  or  else  I  think  this  line  a 
feast  for  one  of  your  Lovers.'  The  text  of 
the  sonnet  will  be  found  in  the  Appendix. 

NATURE  withheld  Cassandra  in  the  skies, 
For   more   adornment,  a   full   thousand 

years; 
She  took  their  cream  of  Beauty's  fairest 

dyes, 
And    shaped   and    tinted   her  above  all 

Peers: 
Meanwhile  Love  kept  her  dearly  with  his 

wings, 
And  underneath  their  shadow  filPd  her 

eyes 
With  such  a  richness  that  the  cloudy  Kings 

Of  high  Olympus  utter'd  slavish  sighs. 
When  from  the    Heavens  I  saw  her  first 

descend, 
My  heart  took  fire,  and   only  burning 

pains, 
They  were  my  pleasures  —  they  my  Life's 

sad  end; 

Love  pour'd  her  beauty  into  my  warm 
veins. 


TO   A    LADY   SEEN    FOR  A   FEW 
MOMENTS   AT   VAUXHALL 

First  published  in  flood's  Magazine  for  April 
1844,  and  afterward  included  in  Life,  Letters 
and  Literary  Remains.  No  date  is  given,  and 
the  poem  is  placed  here  from  a  fancied  asso- 
ciation with  the  lady  whom  Keats  saw  at  Hast- 
ings and  who  started  the  train  of  thought  in 
his  letter  to  his  brother  and  sister,  October  25, 
1818.  ' 


124 


THE    POEMS   OF    1818-1819 


TIME'S  sea  hath  been  five  years  at  its  slow 

ebb, 
Long  hours  have  to  and  fro  let  creep  the 

sand, 

Since  I  was  tangled  in  thy  beauty's  web, 
And  snared  by  the  ungloving  of  thine 

hand. 

And  yet  I  never  look  on  midnight  sky, 
But  I  behold  thine  eyes'  well-memoried 

light; 
I  cannot  look  upon  the  rose's  dye, 

But  to  thy  cheek  my  soul  doth  take  its 

flight  ; 
I  cannot  look  on  any  budding  flower, 

But  my  fond  ear,  in  fancy  at  thy  lips 
And  hearkening  for  a  love-sound,  doth  de- 
vour 
Its  sweets  in  the  wrong  sense :  —  Thou 

dost  eclipse 

Every  delight  with  sweet  remembering, 
And  grief  unto  my  darling  joys  dost  bring. 

FANCY 

Keats  enclosed  these  lines,  as  lately  written, 
in  a  letter  to  George  and  Georgiana  Keats, 
January  2,  1819.  He  included  the  poem  in  the 
1820  volume.  Mr.  John  Knowles  Paine  has 
published  a  cantata  for  soprano  solo,  chorus, 
and  orchestra,  entitled  The  Realm  of  Fancy, 
using1  these  lines  for  his  book. 

EVER  let  the  Fancy  roam, 

Pleasure  never  is  at  home: 

At  a  touch  sweet  Pleasure  melteth, 

Like  to  bubbles  when  rain  pelteth; 

Then  let  winged  Fancy  wander 

Through  the  thought  still  spread  beyond 

her: 

Open  wide  the  mind's  cage-door, 
She  '11  dart  forth,  and  cloudward  soar. 
O  sweet  Fancy  !  let  her  loose; 
Summer's  joys  are  spoilt  by  use,  10 

And  the  enjoying  of  the  Spring 
Fades  as  does  its  blossoming; 
Autumn's  red-lipp'd  fruitage  too, 
Blushing  through  the  mist  and  dew, 
Cloys  witk  tasting  :  What  do  then  ? 


Sit  thee  by  the  ingle,  when 

The  sear  faggot  blazes  bright, 

Spirit  of  a  winter's  night; 

When  the  soundless  earth  is  muffled, 

And  the  caked  snow  is  shuffled  z^ 

From  the  ploughboy's  heavy  shoon; 

When  the  Night  doth  meet  the  Noon 

In  a  dark  conspiracy 

To  banish  Even  from  her  sky. 

Sit  thee  there,  and  send  abroad, 

With  a  mind  self-overawed, 

Fancy,  high-commission'd:  —  send  her  \ 

She  has  vassals  to  attend  her: 

She  will  bring,  in  spite  of  frost, 

Beauties  that  the  earth  hath  lost;  30 

She  will  bring  thee,  all  together, 

All  delights  of  summer  weather; 

All  the  buds  and  bells  of  May, 

From  dewy  sward  or  thorny  spray; 

All  the  heaped  Autumn's  wealth, 

With  a  still,  mysterious  stealth: 

She  will  mix  these  pleasures  up 

Like  three  fit  wines  in  a  cup, 

And  thou  shalt  quaff  it:  — thou  shalt  hear 

Distant  harvest-carols  clear;  4o 

Rustle  of  the  reaped  corn; 

Sweet  birds  antheming  the  morn: 

And,  in  the  same  moment  —  hark  ! 

'T  is  the  early  April  lark, 

Or  the  rooks,  with  busy  caw, 

Foraging  for  sticks  and  straw. 

Thou  shalt,  at  one  glance,  behold 

The  daisy  and  the  marigold; 

White-plumed  lilies,  and  the  first 

Hedge-grown  primrose  that  hath  burst ;  50 

Shaded  hyacinth,  alway 

Sapphire  queen  of  the  mid-May; 

And  every  leaf,  and  every  flower 

Pearled  with  the  self-same  shower. 

Thou  shalt  see  the  field-mouse  peep 

Meagre  from  its  celled  sleep; 

And  the  snake  all  winter-thin 

Cast  on  sunny  bank  its  skin; 

Freckled  nest-eggs  thou  shalt  see 

Hatching  in  the  hawthorn-tree,  6c 

W^hen  the  hen-bird's  wing  doth  rest 

Quiet  on  her  mossy  nest; 


SONG 


I2S 


Then  the  hurry  and  alarm 
When  the  bee-hive  casts  its  swarin ; 
Acorns  ripe  down-pattering 
While  the  autumn  breezes  sing. 

Oh,  sweet  Fancy  !  let  her  loose; 
Every  thing  is  spoilt  by  use ; 
Where  's  the  cheek  that  doth  not  fade, 
Too  much  gazed  at  ?     Where  's  the  maid  70 
Whose  lip  mature  is  ever  new  ? 
Where  's  the  eye,  however  blue, 
Doth  not  weary  ?     Where  's  the  face 
One  would  meet  in  every  place  ? 
Where  's  the  voice,  however  soft, 
One  would  hear  so  very  oft  ? 
At  a  touch  sweet  Pleasure  inelteth 
Like  to  bubbles  when  rain  pelteth. 
Let,  then,  winged  Fancy  find 
Thee  a  mistress  to  thy  mind:  So 

Dulcet-eyed  as  Ceres'  daughter 
Ere  the  God  of  Torment  taught  her 
How  to  frown  and  how  to  chide; 
With  a  waist  and  with  a  side 
White  as  Hebe's,  when  her  zone 
Slipt  its  golden  clasp,  and  down 
Fell  her  kirtle  to  her  feet, 
While  she  held  the  goblet  sweet, 
And  Jove  grew  languid.  —  Break  the  mesh 
Of  the  Fancy's  silken  leash;  go 

Quickly  break  her  prison-string, 
And  such  joys  as  these  she  '11  bring.  — 
Let  the  winged  Fancy  roam, 
Pleasure  never  is  at  home. 


ODE 

Written  on  the  blank  page  before  Beaumont 
and  Fletcher's  tragi-comedy,  The  Fair  Maid  of 
the  Inn,  and  addressed  thus  to  these  bards  in 
particular.  Sent  in  a  letter  to  George  and  Geor- 
giana  Keats,  January  2,  1819.  It  is  included 
in  the  1820  volume. 

BARDS  of  Passion  and  of  Mirth, 
Ye  have  left  your  souls  on  earth  ! 
Have  ye  souls  in  heaven  too, 
Double-lived  in  regions  new  ? 
Yes,  and  those  of  heaven  commune 


With  the  spheres  of  sun  and  moon; 
With  the  noise  of  fountains  wond'rous 
And  the  parle  of  voices  thund'rous; 
With  the  whisper  of  heaven's  trees 
And  one  another,  in  soft  ease  10 

Seated  on  Elysian  lawns 
Browsed  by  none  but  Dian's  fawns ; 
Underneath  large  blue-bells  tented, 
Where  the  daisies  are  rose-scented, 
And  the  rose  herself  has  got 
Perfume  which  on  earth  is  not; 
Where  the  nightingale  doth  sing 
Not  a  senseless,  tranced  thing, 
But  divine  melodious  truth; 
Philosophic  numbers  smooth;  20 

Tales  and  golden  histories 
Of  heaven  and  its  mysteries. 

Thus  ye  live  on  high,  and  then 
On  the  earth  ye  live  again ; 
And  the  souls  ye  left  behind  you 
Teach  us,  here,  the  way  to  find  you, 
Where  your  other  souls  are  joying, 
Never  slumber'd,  never  cloying. 
Here,  your  earth-born  souls  still  speak 
To  mortals,  of  their  little  week;,  3o 

Of  their  sorrows  and  delights; 
Of  their  passions  and  their  spites; 
Of  their  glory  and  their  shame ; 
What  doth  strengthen  and  what  maim. 
Thus  ye  teach  us,  every  day, 
Wisdom,  though  fled  far  away. 

Bards  of  Passion  and  of  Mirth, 
Ye  have  left  your  souls  on  earth  ! 
Ye  have  souls  in  heaven  too, 
Double-lived  in  regions  new  !  4o 


SONG 

'  There  is  just  room,  I  see,  in  this  page  to 
copy  a  little  thing  I  wrote  off  to  some  Music 
as  it  was  playing-.'  Keats  to  George  and 
Georgiana  Keats,  January  2,  1819. 

I  HAD  a  dove  and  the  sweet  dove  died; 
And  I  have  thought  it  died  of  grieving: 


126 


THE   POEMS   OF   1818-1819 


O,   what   could   it   grieve    for  ?     Its   feet 

were  tied, 
With  a  silken  thread  of  my  own  hand's 

weaving; 
Sweet   little   red    feet !    why   should   you 

die  — 
Why  should  you   leave   me,    sweet   bird  ! 

why? 

You  lived  alone  in  the  forest-tree, 
Why,  pretty   thing !  would   you   not   live 

with  me  ? 

I  kiss'd  you  oft  and  gave  you  white  peas; 
Why   not   live   sweetly,   as   in   the   green 

trees  ? 


ODE    ON    MELANCHOLY 

Published  in  Lamia,  Isabella,  the  Eve  of  St. 
Agnes  and  other  Poems,  1820.  There  is  no 
date  affixed  to  it,  but  if  it  takes  its  color  at 
all  from  Keats's  own  experience,  it  might  not 
be  amiss  to  refer  it  to  the  early  part  of  1819, 
when  he  had  come  under  the  influence  of  his 
passion  for  Fanny  Brawne.  In  a  letter  to 
Haydon,  written  between  January  7  and  14, 
1819,  Keats  says  :  '  I  have  been  writing  a  little 
now  and  then  lately  :  but  nothing  to  speak  of 
—  being  discontented  and  as  it  were  moulting. 
Yet  I  do  not  think  I  shall  ever  come  to  the 
rope  or  the  pistol.  For  after  a  day  or  two's 
melancholy,  although  I  smoke  more  and  more 
my  own  insufficiency  —  I  see  by  little  and  lit- 
tle more  of  what  is  to  be  done,  and  how  it  is 
to  be  done,  should  I  ever  be  able  to  do  it.' 

Lord  Houghton,  in  the  Aldine  edition  of 
1876,  makes  the  following  prefatory  note: 
'  A  singular  instance  of  Keats's  delicate  per- 
ception occurred  in  the  composition  of  this 
Ode.  In  the  original  manuscript  he  had  in- 
tended to  represent  the  vulgar  conception  of 
Melancholy  with  gloom  and  horror,  in  contrast 
with  the  emotion  that  incites  to  — 

"  glut  thy  sorrow  on  a  morning  rose 
Or  on  the  rainbow  of  the  salt  sand-ware, 
Or  on  the  wealth  of  globed  peonies ;  " 

and  which  essentially 

"  lives  in  Beauty  —  Beauty  that  must  die, 
And  Joy,  whose  hand  is  ever  at  his  lips 
Bidding  adieu." 


The  first  stanza,  therefore,  was  the  following : 
as  grim  a  passage  as  Blake  or  Fuseli  could 
have  dreamed  and  painted  :  — 

"  Though  you  should  build  a  bark  of  dead  men's  bones, 

And  rear  a  platform  gibbet  for  a  mast, 
Stitch  shrouds  together  for  a  sail,  with  groans 

To  fill  it  out,  blood-stained  and  aghast ; 
Although  your  rudder  be  a  dragon's  tail 
Long  sever'd,  yet  still  hard  with  agony, 

Your  cordage  large  uprootings  from  the  skull 
Of  bald  Medusa,  certes  you  would  fail 
To  find  the  Melancholy  —  whether  she 
Dreameth  in  any  isle  of  Lethe  dull." 

But  no  sooner  was  this  written,  than  the  poet 
became  conscious  that  the  coarseness  of  the 
contrast  would  destroy  the  general  effect  of 
luxurious  tenderness  which  it  was  the  object 
of  the  poem  to  produce,  and  he  confined  the 
gross  notion  of  Melancholy  to  less  violent  im- 
ages, and  let  the  ode  at  once  begin,  — ' 


No,  no  !  go  not  to  Lethe,  neither  twist 
Wolf's-bane,  tight-rooted,  for  its  poison- 
ous wine; 
Nor  suffer  thy  pale  forehead  to  be  kiss'd 

By  nightshade,  ruby  grape  of  Proserpine ; 
Make  not  your  rosary  of  yew-berries, 
Nor  let  the  beetle,  or  the  death-moth  be 
Your  mournful  Psyche,  nor  the  downy 

owl 

A  partner  in  your  sorrow's  mysteries; 
For  shade  to  shade  will  come  too  drows- 

iiy. 

And  drown  the  wakeful  anguish  of  the 
soul. 

ii 

But  when  the  melancholy  fit  shall  fall 
Sudden    from    heaven    like   a   weeping 

cloud, 

That  fosters  the  droop-headed  flowers  all, 
And   hides   the  green  hills  in  an  April 

shroud ; 

Then  glut  thy  sorrow  on  a  morning  rose, 
Or  on  the  rainbow  of  the  salt-sand  wave, 

Or  on  the  wealth  of  globed  peonies; 
Or  if  thy  mistress  some  rich  anger  shows, 
Emprison  her  soft  hand,  and  let  her  rave, 
And  feed  deep,  deep  upon  her  peerless 
eyes. 


THE   EVE   OF    ST.  AGNES 


127 


in 
She  dwells   with    Beauty  —  Beauty  that 

must  die  ; 

And  Joy,  whose  hand  is  ever  at  his  lips 
Bidding  adieu;  and  aching  Pleasure  nigh, 
Turning  to  poison  while  the  bee-mouth 

sips: 
Aye,  in  the  very  temple  of  Delight 

Veil'd  Melancholy  has  her  sovran  shrine, 
Though  seen  of  none  save  him  whose 

strenuous  tongue 
Can  burst  Joy's  grape  against  his  palate 

fine; 
His   soul   shall   taste   the    sadness  of   her 

might, 

And  be  among   her  cloudy   trophies 
hung. 


THE   EVE   OF   ST.   AGNES 

Begun  early  in  1819.  In  a  letter  to  George 
and  Georglana  Keats,  dated  February  14, 1819, 
Keats  says  :  '  I  was  nearly  a  fortnight  at  Mr. 
John  Snook's  and  a  few  days  at  old  Mr.  Dilke's 
(Chichester  in  Hampshire).  Nothing  worth 
speaking  of  happened  at  either  place.  I  took 
down  some  thin  paper  and  wrote  on  it  a  little 
poem  called  St.  Agnes's  Eve.'  The  poem 
underwent  a  great  deal  of  revision,  and  was  not 
in  final  form  before  September ;  it  was  pub- 
lished in  the  1820  volume. 


ST.   AGNES'   EVE  —  Ah,   bitter  chill  it 

was  ! 

The  owl,  for  all  his  feathers,  was  a-cold; 
The  hare  limp'd  trembling  through  the 

frozen  grass, 

And  silent  was  the  flock  in  woolly  fold : 
Numb  were  the  Beadsman's  fingers,  while 

he  told 

His  rosary,  and  while  his  frosted  breath, 
Like  pious  incense  from  a  censer  old, 
Seem'd  taking  flight  for  heaven,  without 

a  death, 
Past  the  sweet  Virgin's  picture,  while  his 

prayer  he  saith. 


His  prayer  he  saith,  this   patient,  holy 

man; 
Then  takes  his  lamp,  and  riseth  from  his 

knees, 
And  back  returneth,   meagre,  barefoot, 

wan, 

Along  the  chapel  aisle  by  slow  degrees: 
The  sculptured  dead,  on  each  side,  seem 

to  freeze, 

Emprison'd  in  black,  purgatorial  rails: 
Knights,  ladies,  praying  in  dumb  orat'ries, 
He  passeth  by;  and  his  weak  spirit  fails 
To  think  how  they  may  ache  in  icy  hoods 

and  mails. 

ill 
Northward  he  turneth  through  a  little 

door, 
And    scarce    three    steps,   ere    Music's 

golden  tongue 
Flatter'd   to  tears   this   aged  man  and 

poor; 

But  no  —  already  had  his  death-bell  rung; 
The  joys  of  all  his  life  were  said  and 

sung: 
His  was   harsh  penance  on   St.  Agnes' 

Eve: 

Another  way  he  went,  and  soon  among 
Rough   ashes   sat   he  for  his   soul's  re- 
prieve, 
And  all  night  kept  awake,  for  sinners'  sake 

to  grieve. 

IV 

That  ancient  Beadsman  heard  the  pre- 
lude soft; 

And  so  it  chanced,  for  many  a  door  was 
wide, 

From  hurry  to  and  fro.     Soon,  up  aloft, 

The  silver,  snarling  trumpets  'gan  to 
chide: 

The  level  chambers,  ready  with  their 
pride, 

Were  glowing  to  receive  a  thousand 
guests: 

The  carved  angels,  ever  eager-eyed, 


128 


THE   POEMS   OF    1818-1819 


Stared,  where  upon  their  heads  the  cor- 
nice rests, 

With  hair  blown  back,  and  wings  put  cross- 
wise on  their  breasts. 


At  length  burst  in  the  argent  revelry, 
With  plume,  tiara,  and  all  rich  array, 
Numerous  as  shadows  haunting  fairily 
The   brain,  new-stuff'd,  in  youth,   with 

triumphs  gay 
Of    old   romance.     These    let   us    wish 

away, 
And  turn,  sole-thoughted,  to  one  Lady 

there, 
Whose  heart  had  brooded,  all  that  wintry 

day, 
On  love,  and  wing'd  St.  Agnes'  saintly 

care, 
As  she  had  heard  old  dames  full  many 

times  declare. 

VI 

They  told  her  how,  upon  St.  Agnes'  Eve, 
Young   virgins    might   have   visions   of 

delight, 

And  soft  adorings  from  their  loves  re- 
ceive 

Upon  the  honey 'd  middle  of  the  night, 
If  ceremonies  due  they  did  aright ; 
As,  supperless  to  bed  they  must  retire, 
And   couch    supine   their   beauties,   lily 

white ; 

Nor  look  behind,  nor  sideways,  but  re- 
quire 

Of  Heaven  with  upward  eyes  for  all  that 
they  desire. 

VII 

Full  of  this  whim  was  thoughtful  Made- 
line: 

The  music,  yearning  like  a  God  in  pain, 
She   scarcely    heard:    her   maiden  eyes 

divine, 
Fix'd  on  the  floor,  saw  many  a  sweeping 

train 

Pass  by  —  she  heeded  not  at  all :  in  vain 
Came  many  a  tiptoe,  amorous  cavalier, 


And  back  retired;  not  cool'd  by  high  dis- 
dain, 

But  she  saw  not:  her  heart  was  other- 
where ; 

She  sigh'd  for  Agnes'  dreams,  the  sweetest 
of  the  year. 

VIII 

She  danced  along  with  vague,  regardless 

eyes, 
Anxious  her  lips,  her  breathing  quick  and 

short: 
The  hallow'd  hour  was  near  at  hand:  she 

sighs 
Amid   the    timbrels,    and   the    throng'd 

resort 

Of  whisperers  in  anger,  or  in  sport; 
'Mid  looks  of  love,  defiance,  hate,  and 

scorn, 

Hoodwink'd  with  faery  fancy;  all  amort, 
Save  to  St.   Agnes  and  her  lambs  un- 
shorn, 
And  all  the  bliss  to  be  before  to-morrow 

morn. 

IX 

So,  purposing  each  moment  to  retire, 
She  linger'd  still.     Meantime,  across  the 

moors, 
Had  come  young  Porphyro,  with  heart 

on  fire 

For  Madeline.    Beside  the  portal  doors, 
Buttress'd   from   moonlight,  stands   he, 

and  implores 

All  saints  to  give  him  sight  of  Madeline, 
But  for  one  moment  in  the  tedious  hours, 
That  he  might  gaze  and  worship  all  un- 
seen; 

Perchance  speak,  kneel,   touch,   kiss  —  in 
sooth  such  things  have  been. 


He  ventures  in:  let  no  buzz'd  whisper  tell: 
All  eyes  be  muffled,  or  a  hundred  swords 
Will  storm  his  heart,  Love's  fev'rous 

citadel : 
For  him,  those  chambers  held  barbarian 

hordes, 


THE   EVE   OF   ST.  AGNES 


129 


Hyena  foemen,  and  hot-blooded  lords, 
Whose  very  dogs  would  execrations  howl 
Against  his  lineage:  not  one  breast  af- 
fords 

Him  any  mercy,  in  that  mansion  foul, 
Save  one  old  beldame,  weak  in  body  and  in 
soul. 

XI 

Ah,  happy  chance  !    the  aged   creature 

came, 

Shuffling  along  with  ivory-headed  wand, 
To  where  he  stood,  hid  from  the  torch's 

flame, 

Behind  a  broad  hall-pillar,  far  beyond 
The   sound    of    merriment   and    chorus 

bland: 
He  startled  her;  but  soon  she  knew  his 

face, 
And  grasp'd  his  fingers  in  her  palsied 

hand, 
Saying,    *  Mercy,    Porphyro !    hie    thee 

from  this  place; 
They  are    all  here  to-night,   the   whole 

bloodthirsty  race  ! 

XII 

Get  hence  !    get  hence  !  there  's  dwarf- 
ish Hildebrand; 

He  had  a  fever  late,  and  in  the  fit 

He  cursed  thee  and  thine,  both  house  and 
land  : 

Then  there  's  that  old  Lord  Maurice,  not 
a  whit 

More  tame  for  his  gray  hairs  —  Alas  me  ! 
flit! 

Flit  like  a  ghost  away.'  — « Ah,  Gossip 
dear, 

We're  safe  enough;  here  in   this  arm- 
chair sit, 

And  tell  me  how  '  —  « Good  Saints  !  not 

here,  not  here; 

Follow  me,  child,  or  else  these  stones  will 
be  thy  bier.' 

XIII 

He  follow'd  through  a  lowly  arched  way, 
Brushing    the   cobwebs   with   his    lofty 
plume  ; 


And  as  she  mutter'd  *  Well-a  —  well-a- 

day!' 

He  found  him  in  a  little  moonlight  room, 
Pale,  latticed,  chill,  and  silent  as  a  tomb. 
'Now  tell  me  where  is  Madeline,'  said 

he, 

*  O  tell  me,  Angela,  by  the  holy  loom 
Which  none  but  secret   sisterhood  may 

see, 
When  they  St.  Agnes'  wool  are  weaving 

piously.' 

XIV 

«  St.  Agnes  !     Ah  !  it  is  St.  Agnes'  Eve  — 
Yet  men  will  murder  upon  holy  days: 
Thou  must  hold  water  in  a  witch's  sieve, 
And  be  liege-lord  of  all  the  Elves  and 

Fays, 

To  venture  so:  it  fills  me  with  amaze 
To  see    thee,   Porphyro  !  —  St.   Agnes' 

Eve! 
God's   help  !  my  lady  fair  the  conjuror 

plays 

This  very  night:    good  angels  her  de- 
ceive ! 

But  let  me  laugh  awhile,  I  've  mickle  time 
to  grieve.' 

XV 

Feebly  she  laugheth  in  the  languid  moon, 
While  Porphyro  upon  her  face  doth  look, 
Like  puzzled  urchin  on  an  aged  crone 
Who  keepeth  closed  a  wond'rous  riddle- 
book, 

As  spectacled  she  sits  in  chimney  nook. 
But  soon  his  eyes  grew  brilliant,  when  she 

told 
His  lady's  purpose;  and  he  scarce  could 

brook 

Tears,  at  the  thought  of  those  enchant- 
ments cold, 
And  Madeline  asleep  in  lap  of  legends  old. 

XVI 

Sudden  a  thought  came  like  a  full-blown 

rose, 
Flushing   his   brow,  and   in   his   pained 

heart 


130 


THE   POEMS    OF    1818-1819 


Made  purple  riot:  then  doth  he  propose 
A  stratagem,  that  makes  the  beldame 

start: 

'  A  cruel  man  and  impious  thou  art: 
Sweet  lady,  let  her  pray,  and  sleep,  and 

dream 

Alone  with  her  good  angels,  far  apart 
From  wicked  men  like  thee.     Go,  go  !  I 

deem 
Thou  canst  not  surely  be  the  same  that  thou 

didst  seem.' 

XVII 

*  I  will   not   harm   her,  by  all  saints  I 

swear,' 
Quoth  Porphyro:   '  O  may  I  ne'er  find 

grace 
When  my  weak  voice  shall  whisper  its 

last  prayer, 

If  one  of  her  soft  ringlets  I  displace, 
Or  look  with  ruffian  passion  in  her  face : 
Good  Angela,  believe  me  by  these  tears; 
Or  I  will,  even  in  a  moment's  space, 
Awake,  with  horrid  shout,  my  foemen's 

ears, 
And   beard   them,   though  they   be   more 

fang'd  than  wolves  and  bears.' 

XVIII 

'  Ah !  why  wilt   thou  affright   a   feeble 

soul? 
A  poor,  weak,  palsy-stricken,  church-yard 

thing, 
Whose  passing-bell  may  ere  the  midnight 

toll; 
Whose  prayers  for  thee,  each  morn  and 

evening, 
Were  never  miss'd.'     Thus  plaining,  doth 

she  bring 

A  gentler  speech  from  burning  Porphyro; 
So  woful,  and  of  such  deep  sorrowing, 
That  Angela  gives  promise  she  will  do 
Whatever  he  shall  wish,  betide  her  weal  or 

woe. 

XIX 

Which  was,  to  lead  him,  in  close  secrecy, 
Even  to  Madeline's  chamber,  and  there 
hide 


Him  in  a  closet,  of  such  privacy 

That  he  might  see  her  beauty  unespied, 

And  win  perhaps  that  night  a  peerless 

bride, 

While  legion'd  fairies  paced  the  coverlet, 
And  pale  enchantment  held  her  sleepy- 
eyed. 

Never  on  such  a  night  have  lovers  met, 
Since  Merlin  paid  his  Demon  all  the  mon- 
strous debt. 

XX 

'It   shall  be  as  thou  wishest,'  said  the 

Dame: 
*  All  cates  and  dainties  shall  be  stored 

there 

Quickly  on  this  feast-night :  by  the  tam- 
bour frame 
Her  own  lute  thou  wilt  see:  no  time  to 

spare, 
For   I  am  slow  and  feeble,  and  scarce 

dare 

On  such  a  catering  trust  my  dizzy  head. 
Wait  here,  my  child,  with  patience; 

kneel  in  prayer 
The    while:  Ah  !  thou   must   needs   the 

lady  wed, 
Or  may  I  never  leave  my  grave   among 

the  dead.' 

XXI 

So  saying  she  hobbled  off  with  busy  fear. 
The  lover's  endless  minutes  slowly  pass'd; 
The  Dame  return'd,  and  whisper'd  in 

his  ear 

To  follow  her;  with  aged  eyes  aghast 
From  fright  of  dim  espial.     Safe  at  last, 
Through  many  a  dusky  gallery,  they  gain 
The   maiden's    chamber,    silken,   hush'd 

and  chaste; 
Where   Porphyro    took   covert,  pleased 

amain. 
His  poor  guide  hurried  back  with  agues  in 

her  brain. 

XXII 

Her  falt'ring  hand  upon  the  balustrade, 
Old  Angela  was  feeling  for  the  stair, 


THE   EVE   OF   ST.  AGNES 


When    Madeline,    St.   Agnes'    charmed 

maid, 

Rose,  like  a  mission'd  spirit,  unaware: 
With  silver  taper's  light,  and  pious  care, 
She  turn'd,  and  down  the  aged  gossip  led 
To  a  safe  level  matting.     Now  prepare, 
Young Porphyro,  for  gazing  on  that  bed; 
She  comes,  she  comes  again,  like  ring-dove 

fray'd  and  fled. 

XXIII 

Out  went  the  taper  as  she  hurried  in; 
Its  little   smoke,    in    pallid    moonshine, 

died: 

She  closed  the  door,  she  panted,  all  akin 
To  spirits  of  the  air,  and  visions  wide: 
No  uttered  syllable,  or,  woe  betide  ! 
But  to  her  heart,  her  heart  was  voluble, 
Paining  with  eloquence  her  balmy  side; 
As    though    a     tongueless     nightingale 

should  swell 
Her  throat  in  vain,  and  die,  heart-stifled  in 

her  dell. 

XXIV 

A  casement  high  and  triple  arch'd  there 
was, 

All  garlanded  with  carven  imag'ries 

Of  fruits,  and  flowers,   and  bunches  of 
knot-grass, 

And  diamonded  with  panes  of  quaint  de- 
vice, 

Innumerable    of     stains    and     splendid 
dyes, 

As  are  the  tiger-moth's  deep-damask'd 
wings; 

And  in  the  midst,  'mong  thousand  herald- 
ries, 

And  twilight  saints,  and  dim  emblazon- 

ings, 

A  shielded  scutcheon  blush'd  with  blood  of 
queens  and  kings. 

XXV 

Full  on  this  casement  shone  the  wintry 

moon, 
And  threw  warm  gules   on   Madeline's 

fair  breast, 


As  down  she  knelt  for  heaven's  grace 

and  boon;  f 

Rose-bloom  fell  on  her  hands,  together 

prest, 

And  on  her  silver  cross  soft  amethyst, 
And  on  her  hair  a  glory,  like  a  saint: 
She  seem'd  a  splendid  angel,  newly  drest, 
Save  wings,  for  heaven :  —  Porphyro  grew 

faint; 
She  knelt,  so  pure  a  thing,  so  free  from 

mortal  taint. 

XXVI 

Anon    his    heart  revives:    her   vespers 

done, 
Of  all  its  wreathed  pearls  her  hair  she 

frees; 
Unclasps   her   warmed    jewels    one    by 

one; 

Loosens  her  fragrant  bodice;  by  degrees 
Her  rich  attire   creeps   rustling  to  her 

knees: 

Half-bidden,  like  a  mermaid  in  sea- weed, 
Pensive  awhile  she  dreams  awake,  and 


In  fancy,  fair  St.  Agnes  in  her  bed, 
But  dares  not  look  behind,  or  all  the  charm 
is  fled. 

XXVII 

Soon,  trembling  in  her  soft  and  chilly 

nest, 
In  sort  of  wakeful  swoon,  perplex'd  she 

lay, 
Until  the  poppied  warmth  of  sleep  op- 

press'd 
Her   soothed   limbs,   and   soul   fatigued 

away; 

Flown,  like  a  thought,  until  the  morrow- 
day; 
Blissfully   haven'd   both   from   joy   and 

pain; 
Clasp'd  like  a  missal  where  swart  Pay- 

nims  pray; 
Blinded  alike  from  sunshine  and  from 

rain, 
As  though  a  rose  should  shut,  and  be  a  bud 

again. 


132 


THE   POEMS   OF   1818-1819 


XXVIII 

Stol'n  to  this  paradise,  and  so  entranced, 
Porphyro  gazed  upon  her  empty  dress, 
And   listen'd    to    her    breathing,    if    it 

chanced 

To  wake  into  a  slumberous  tenderness; 
Which  when  he  heard,  that  minute  did 

he  bless, 
And   breathed  himself:   then   from   the 

closet  crept, 

Noiseless  as  fear  in  a  wide  wilderness, 
And    over    the    hush'd    carpet,    silent, 

stept, 
And  'tween  the  curtains  peep'd,  where,  lo  ! 

—  how  fast  she  slept. 

XXIX 

Then  by  the  bed-side,  where  the  faded 

moon 

Made  a  dim,  silver  twilight,  soft  he  set 
A  table,  and,  half  anguish'd,  threw 

thereon 
A  cloth   of   woven   crimson,   gold,   and 

jet:- 

O  for  some  drowsy  Morphean  amulet ! 
The  boisterous,  midnight,  festive  clarion, 
The  kettle-drum,  and  far-heard  clarionet, 
Affray   his   ears,   though   but   in   dying 

tone: — 
The  hall-door  shuts  again,  and  all  the  noise 

is  gone. 

XXX 

And  still  she  slept  an  azure-lidded  sleep, 
In  blanched   linen,   smooth,  and   laven- 

der'd, 
While  he  from  forth  the  closet  brought 

a  heap 
Of  candied  apple,  quince,  and  plum,  and 

gourd; 
With   jellies   soother   than   the    creamy 

curd, 

And  lucent  syrops,  tinct  with  cinnamon; 
Manna  and  dates,  in  argosy  transferr'd 
From  Fez;  and  spiced  dainties,  every 

one, 
From  silken  Samarcand  to  cedar'd  Leba- 


XXXI 

These  delicate  s  he  heap'd  with  glowing 

hand 

On  golden  dishes  and  in  baskets  bright 
Of    wreathed    silver:    sumptuous    they 

stand 

In  the  retired  quiet  of  the  night, 
Filling   the   chilly   room   with   perfume 

light.  — 
'And   now,  my   love,   my    seraph   fair, 

awake  ! 

Thou  art  my  heaven,  and  I  thine  ere- 
mite: 
Open  thine  eyes,  for   meek   St.   Agnes' 

sake, 
Or  I  shall  drowse  beside  thee,  so  my  soul 

doth  ache.' 

XXXII 

Thus   whispering,   his   warm,    unnerved 
arm 

Sank   in   her  pillow.     Shaded   was   her 
dream 

By  the  dusk   curtains:  —  'twas  a   mid- 
night charm 

Impossible  to  melt  as  iced  stream: 

The  lustrous  salvers   in   the   moonlight 
gleam; 

Broad   golden   fringe   upon    the   carpet 
lies: 

It  seem'd  he  never,  never  could  redeem 

From  such  a  steadfast   spell  his  lady's 

eyes; 

So  mused  awhile,  entoil'd  in  woofed  phan- 
tasies. 

XXXIII 

Awakening     up,    he    took    her     hollow 

lute,  — 
Tumultuous,  —  and,  in  chords  that  ten- 

derest  be, 
He  play'd  an  ancient  ditty,  long  since 

mute, 
In  Provence  call'd  '  La  belle  dame  sans 

mercy: ' 

Close  to  her  ear  touching  the  melody;  — 
Wherewith  disturb'd,  she  utter'd  a  soft 

moan: 


THE   EVE   OF   ST.  AGNES 


133 


He  ceased  —  she  panted  quick  —  and 
suddenly 

Her  blue  affrayed  eyes  wide  open  shone  : 
Upon  his  knees  he  sank,  pale  as  smooth- 
sculptured  stone. 

xxxiv 

Her  eyes  were  open,  but  she  still  beheld, 
Now  wide  awake,  the  vision  of  her  sleep: 
There  was  a  painful  change,  that  nigh 

expell'd 
The  blisses  of  her  dream   so  pure  and 

deep 

At  which  fair  Madeline  began  to  weep, 
And    moan    forth   witless    words    with 

many  a  sigh; 
While  still  her  gaze  on  Porphyro  would 

keep; 
Who  knelt,  with  joined  hands  and  piteous 

eye, 
Fearing  to  move  or  speak,  she  look'd  so 

dreamingly. 

xxxv 

1  Ah,  Porphyro! '  said  she,  '  but  even  now 

Thy  voice  was  at  sweet  tremble  in  mine 
ear, 

Made  tuneable  with  every  sweetest  vow; 

And  those  sad  eyes  were  spiritual  and 
clear: 

How  changed  thou  art !  how  pallid,  chill, 
and  drear ! 

Give  me  that  voice  again,  my  Porphyro, 

Those  looks  immortal,  those  complain- 
ings dear  ! 

Oh  leave  me  not  in  this  eternal  woe, 
For  if  thou  diest,  my  Love,  I  know  not 
where  to  go.' 

xxxvi 

Beyond  a  mortal  man  impassion'd  far 
At  these  voluptuous  accents,  he  arose, 
Ethereal,  flush'd,  and  like  a  throbbing 

star 

Seen  mid  the  sapphire  heaven's  deep  re- 
pose; 

Into  her  dream  he  melted,  as  the  rose 
Blendeth  its  odour  with  the  violet,  — 


Solution  sweet:  meantime  the  frost- wind 

blows 
Like  Love's  alarum  pattering  the  sharp 

sleet 
Against  the  window-panes;  St.  Agnes'  moon 

hath  set. 

xxxvn 

'Tis   dark:    quick   pattereth    the   flaw- 
blown  sleet: 

'  This  is  no  dream,  my  bride,  my  Made- 
line ! ' 

'Tis  dark:  the  iced  gusts  still  rave  and 
beat: 

'  No  dream,  alas  !  alas  !  and  woe  is  mine  ! 

Porphyro  will  leave  me  here  to  fade  and 
pine.  — 

Cruel !    what  traitor  could   thee  hither 
bring  ? 

I  curse  not,  for  my  heart  is  lost  in  thine, 

Though     thou     forsakest    a     deceived 

thing;  — 

A  dove  forlorn  and  lost  with  sick  unpruned 
wing.' 

XXXVIII 

'My  Madeline  !  sweet  dreamer  !  lovely 

bride  ! 

Say,  may  I  be  for  aye  thy  vassal  blest  ? 
Thy  beauty's   shield,  heart-shaped  and 

vermeil  dyed  ? 
Ah,  silver   shrine,  here  will  I  take  my 

rest 

After  so  many  hours  of  toil  and  quest, 
A  famish'd  pilgrim,  —  saved  by  miracle. 
Though  I  have  found,  I  will  not  rob  thy 

nest 
Saving  of  thy  sweet  self;  if  thou  think'st 

well 
To  trust,  fair  Madeline,  to  no  rude  infidel. 

XXXIX 
'  Hark !  't  is  an  elfin  storm  from  faery 

land, 

Of  haggard  seeming,  but  a  boon  indeed : 
Arise  —  arise  !  the  morning  is  at  hand :  — 
The  bloated  wassailers  will  never  heed :  — 
Let  us  away,  my  love,  with  happy  speed; 


THE   POEMS    OF    1818-1819 


There  are  no  ears  to  hear,  or  eyes  to 

see,— 
Drown'd  all  in  Rhenish  and  the  sleepy 

mead: 

Awake  !  arise  !  my  love,  and  fearless  be, 
For  o'er  the  southern  moors  I  have  a  home 

for  thee.' 

XL 

She  hurried   at  his   words,  beset  with 

fears, 
For    there    were    sleeping    dragons    all 

around, 
At  glaring  watch,  perhaps,  with  ready 

spears  — 
Down  the  wide  stairs  a  darkling  way  they 

found.  — 
In  all  the  house  was   heard  no  human 

sound. 
A  chain-droop 'd  lamp  was  flickering  by 

each  door; 
The   arras,   rich  with   horseman,  hawk, 

and  hound, 

Flutter'd    in   the   besieging   wind's   up- 
roar; 
And  the  long  carpets  rose  along  the  gusty 

floor. 

XLI 

They  glide,  like  phantoms,  into  the  wide 

hall; 
Like  phantoms  to  the  iron  porch  they 

glide, 

Where  lay  the  Porter,  in  uneasy  sprawl, 
With  a  huge  empty  flagon  by  his  side: 
The  wakeful  bloodhound  rose,  and  shook 

his  hide, 

But  his  sagacious  eye  an  inmate  owns: 
By   one,    and  one,    the   bolts   full   easy 

slide :  — 
The   chains  lie   silent  on  the   footworn 

stones;  — 
The  key  turns,  and  the  door  upon  its  hinges 

groans. 

XLII 

And  they  are  gone:  aye,  ages  long  ago 
These  lovers  fled  away  into  the  storm. 


That  night  the  Baron  dreamt  of  many  a 
woe, 

And  all  his  warrior-guests,  with  shade 
and  form 

Of  witch,  and  demon,  and  large  coffin- 
worm, 

Were  long  be-nightmared.  Angela  the 
old 

Died  palsy-twitch'd,  with  meagre  face 
deform ; 

The  Beadsman,  after  thousand  aves  told, 
For  aye  unsought-for  slept  among  his  ashes 
cold. 


ODE   ON   A   GRECIAN    URN 

Lempriere's  classical  dictionary  made  Keats 
acquainted  with  the  names  and  attributes  of  the 
inhabitants  of  the  heavens  in  the  ancient  world, 
and  the  Shakesperean  Chapman  introduced 
him  to  Homer,  but  his  acquaintance  with  the 
subtlest  spirit  of  Greece  was  by  a  more  direct 
means.  Keats  did  not  read  Greek,  and  he  had 
no  scholar's  knowledge  of  Greek  art,  but  he 
had  the  poetic  divination  which  scholars  some- 
times fail  to  possess,  and  when  he  strolled  into 
the  British  Museum  and  saw  the  Elgin  marbles, 
the  greatest  remains  in  continuous  series  of  per- 
haps the  greatest  of  Greek  sculptures,  he  saw 
them  as  an  artist  of  kindred  spirit  with  their 
makers.  He  saw  them  also  with  the  complex 
emotion  of  a  modern,  and  read  into  them  his 
own  thoughts.  The  result  is  most  surely  read 
in  his  longer  poem  of  Hyperion,  but  the  spirit 
evoked  found  its  finest  expression  in  this  ode. 

The  ode  appears  to  have  been  composed  in 
the  spring  of  1819  and  first  published  in  Janu- 
ary, 1820,  in  Annals  of  the  Fine  Arts.  There  are 
then  about  four  years  in  time  between  the  son- 
net, '  On  first  looking  into  Chapman's  Homer,' 
and  this  ode  ;  if  the  former  suggests  a  Balboa, 
this  suggests  a  Magellan  who  has  traversed  the 
Pacific.  It  is  not  needful  to  find  any  single 
piece  of  ancient  sculpture  as  a  model  for  the 
poem,  although  there  is  at  Holland  House, 
where  Keats  might  have  seen  it,  an  urn  with 
just  such  a  scene  of  pastoral  sacrifice  as  is  de- 
scribed in  the  fourth  stanza.  The  ode  was 
included  by  Keats  in  Lamia,  Isabella,  The  Eve 
of  St.  Agnes  and  other  Poems. 


ODE  ON   INDOLENCE 


'35 


THOU  still  unravish'd  bride  of  quietness, 
Thou   foster-child  of  Silence  and   slow 

Time, 

Sylvan  historian,  who  canst  thus  express 
A  flowery  tale   more  sweetly  than  our 

rhyme : 
What  leaf-fringed  legend  haunts  about  thy 

shape 
Of  deities  or  mortals,  or  of  both, 

In  Tempe  or  the  dales  of  Arcady  ? 
What   men   or  gods   are   these  ?    what 

maidens  loth  ? 

What  mad  pursuit  ?    What  struggle  to  es- 
cape ? 

What  pipes  and  timbrels  ?   What  wild 
ecstasy  ?  10 

ii 

Heard  melodies  are  sweet,  but  those  un- 
heard 
Are   sweeter;  therefore,  ye  soft  pipes, 

play  on; 
Not  to  the  sensual  ear,  but,  more  endear'd 

Pipe  to  the  spirit  ditties  of  no  tone: 
Fair  youth,  beneath  the  trees,  thou  canst 

not  leave 
Thy  song,  nor  ever  can  those  trees  be 

bare; 
Bold  Lover,  never,  never  canst  thou 

kiss, 
Though  winning  near   the  goal  —  yet,  do 

not  grieve; 

She  cannot  fade,  though  thou  hast  not 

thy  bliss,  I9 

For  ever  wilt  thou  love,  and  she  be  fair  ! 

ill 
Ah,   happy,   happy   boughs!     that    cannot 

shed 
Your  leaves,  nor   ever  bid   the   Spring 

adieu; 
And,  happy  melodist,  unwearied, 

For  ever  piping  songs  for  ever  new; 
More    happy   love!     more    happy,   happy 

love! 

For  ever  warm  and  still  to  be  enjoy'd, 
For  ever  panting,  and  for  ever  young; 


All  breathing  human  passion  far  above, 
That  leaves  a  heart  high-sorrowful  and 

cloy'd, 

A  burning  forehead,  and  a  parching 
tongue.  30 

IV 

Who  are  these  coming  to  the  sacrifice  ? 

To  what  green  altar,  O  mysterious  priest, 

Lead'st  thou  that  heifer  lowing  at  the  skies, 

And  all  her  silken  flanks  with  garlands 

drest  ? 

What  little  town  by  river  or  sea  shore, 
Or  mountain-built  with  peaceful  citadel, 
Is  emptied  of  this  folk,   this    pious 

morn  ? 

And,  little  town,  thy  streets  for  evermore 
Will  silent  be;  and  not  a  soul  to  tell 
Why  thou  art  desolate,  can  e'er  re- 
turn. 4o 


O  Attic  shape  !     Fair  attitude  !  with  brede 

Of  marble  men  and  maidens  overwrought, 

With  forest  branches  and  the  trodden  weed; 

Thou,  silent  form,  dost  tease  us  out  of 

thought 
As  doth  eternity  :  Cold  Pastoral ! 

When  old  age  shall  this  generation  waste, 
Thou  shalt  remain,  in  midst  of  other 

woe 
Than  ours,  a  friend  to  man,  to  whom 

thou  say'st, 
'Beauty  is  truth,  truth  beauty,'  —  that  is 

all 

Ye  know  on  earth,  and  all  ye  need  to 
know.  c0 


ODE   ON    INDOLENCE 

'  They  toil  not,  neither  do  they  spin.' 

Published  in  Life,  Letters  and  Literary  Re- 
mains. In  a  letter  to  George  and  Georgiana 
Keats,  dated  March  19,  1819,  Keats  uses  lan- 
guage wbieh  shows  this  poem  to  have  been 
just  then  in  his  mind :  '  This  morning  I  am  in  a 
sort  of  temper,  indolent  and  supremely  careless 


136 


THE   POEMS   OF   1818-1819 


—  I  long  after  a  stanza  or  two  of  Thomson's 
Castle  of  Indolence  —  my  passions  are  all 
asleep,  from  my  having  slumbered  till  nearly 
eleven,  and  weakened  the  animal  fibre  all  over 
me,  to  a  delightful  sensation,  about  three  de- 
grees on  this  side  of  faintness.  If  I  had  teeth 
of  pearl  and  the  breath  of  lilies  I  should  call 
it  languor,  but  as  I  am  I  must  call  it  laziness. 
In  this  state  of  effeminacy  the  fibres  of  the 
brain  are  relaxed  in  common  with  the  rest  of 
the  body,  and  to  such  a  happy  degree  that 
pleasure  has  no  show  of  enticement  and  pain 
no  unbearable  power.  Neither  Poetry,  nor 
Ambition,  nor  Love  have  any  alertness  of 
countenance  as  they  pass  by  me ;  they  seem 
rather  like  figures  on  a  Greek  vase  —  a  man 
and  two  women  whom  no  one  but  myself  could 
distinguish  in  their  disguisement.  This  is  the 
only  happiness,  and  is  a  rare  instance  of  the 
advantage  of  the  body  overpowering  the  Mind.' 


ONE  morn  before  me  were  three  figures 

seen, 
With  bowed  necks,   and  joined  hands, 

side-faced ; 

And  one  behind  the  other  stepp'd  serene, 
In  placid   sandals,   and  in  white  robes 

graced; 

They  pass'd,  like  figures  on  a  marble  urn, 
When  shifted  round  to  see   the  other 

side; 
They  came  again;  as  when  the  urn 

once  more 

Is  shifted  round,  the  first  seen  shades  re- 
turn; 
And  they  were  strange  to  me,  as  may 

betide 

With  vases,  to  one  deep  in  Phidian 
lore. 

II 

How  is  it,  Shadows  !    that    I    knew  ye 

not? 

How  came  ye  muffled  in  so  hush  a  mask  ? 
Was  it  a  silent  deep-disguised  plot 

To  steal  away,  and  leave  without  a  task 
My    idle   days  ?    Ripe    was    the    drowsy 
hour; 


The  blissful  cloud  of  summer-indolence 
Benumb'd  my   eyes;   my  pulse   grew 

less  and  less; 
Pain  had  no  sting,  and  pleasure's  wreath 

no  flower: 
O,  why  did  ye  not  melt,  and  leave  my 

sense 

Unhaunted  quite  of  all  but  —  nothing- 
ness ? 

Ill 
A  third  time  pass'd  they  by,  and,  passing, 

turn'd 
Each  one  the  face  a  moment  whiles  to 

me; 

Then  faded,  and  to  follow  them  I  burn'd 
And  ached  for  wings,  because  I  knew 

the  three; 
The  first  was  a  fair  Maid,  and  Love  her 

name; 

The  second  was  Ambition,  pale  of  cheek, 
And    ever    watchful    with    fatigued 

eye; 
The  last,  whom  I  love  more,  the  more  of 

blame 
Is  heap'd  upon  her,  maiden  most  un- 

meek,  — 
I  knew  to  be  my  demon  Poesy. 

IV 

They   faded,    and,    forsooth !      I    wanted 

wings : 
O  folly  !     What  is  Love  ?  and  where  is 

it? 

And  for  that  poor  Ambition  !  it  springs 
From  a  man's  little  heart's  short  fever- 

fit; 

For  Poesy  !  —  no,  —  she  has  not  a  joy,  — 
At  least  for  me,  —  so  sweet  as  drowsy 

noons, 

And  evenings  steep'd  in  honied  indo- 
lence; 

0,  for  an  age  so  shelter'd  from  annoy, 
That  I  may  never  know  how  change  the 

moons, 

Or  hear  the  voice  of  busy  common- 
sense  ! 


ODE   TO   FANNY 


'37 


And  once    more  came    they  by;  —  alas  ! 

wherefore  ? 
My  sleep  had  been  embroider'd  with  dim 

dreams; 
My   soul   had  been    a   lawn    besprinkled 

o'er 
With  flowers,  and  stirring  shades,  and 

baffled  beams: 

The  morn  was  clouded,  but  no  shower  fell, 
Tho'  in  her  lids  hung  the  sweet  tears  of 

May; 

The   open   casement  press'd    a  new- 
leaved  vine, 
Let  in  the  budding  warmth  and  throstle's 

lay; 

O  Shadows  !  't  was  a  time  to  bid  farewell ! 
Upon  your  skirts  had  fallen  no  tears 
of  mine. 

VI 

So,  ye   three  Ghosts,   adieu  !     Ye  cannot 

raise 
My  head  cool  -  bedded  in  the  flowery 

grass; 
For  I  would  not  be  dieted  with  praise, 

A  pet-lamb  in  a  sentimental  farce  ! 
Fade   softly  from  my  eyes   and  be  once 

more 
In  masque-like  figures  on  the  dreamy 

urn; 
Farewell !     I  yet  have  visions  for  the 

night, 

And  for  the  day  faint  visions  there  is  store ; 
Vanish,  ye  Phantoms  !  from  my  idle 

spright, 
Into  the  clouds,  and  nevermore  return  ! 


SONNET 

Published  in  Life,  Letters  and  Literary  He- 
mains.  In  a  letter  to  his  brother  George  and 
wife,  Keats  writes  March  19,  1819:  'I  am 
ever  afraid  that  your  anxiety  for  me  will  lead 
you  to  fear  for  the  violence  of  my  tempera- 
ment continually  smothered  down:  for  that 
reason  I  did  not  intend  to  have  sent  you  the 
following  sonnet  —  but  look  over  the  two  last 


pages  [of  his  letter]  and  ask  yourselves  whether 
I  have  not  that  in  me  which  will  bear  the  buf- 
fets of  the  world.  It  will  be  the  best  comment 
on  my  sonnet ;  it  will  show  you  that  it  was 
written  with  no  Agony  but  that  of  ignorance  ; 
with  no  thirst  of  anything  but  Knowledge 
when  pushed  to  the  point,  though  the  first 
steps  to  it  were  through  my  human  passions,  — 
they  went  away  and  I  wrote  with  my  Mind 
—  and  perhaps  I  must  confess  a  little  bit  of  my 
heart.' 

WHY  did  I  laugh  to-night  ?    No  voice  will 

tell; 

No  God,  no  Demon  of  severe  response, 

Deigns  to  reply  from  Heaven  or  from  Hell: 

Then  to  my  human  heart  I  turn  at  once. 

Heart !  Thou  and  I  are  here  sad  and  alone; 

I  say,  why  did  I  laugh  ?    O  mortal  pain  ! 

O  Darkness  !  Darkness  !  ever  must  I  moan, 

To  question  Heaven  and  Hell  and  Heart 

in  vain. 
Why  did  I  laugh  ?     I  know  this  Being's 

lease, 

My  fancy  to  its  utmost  blisses  spreads; 
Yet  would  I  on  this  very  midnight  cease, 
And  the  world's   gaudy   ensigns  see  in 

shreds; 
Verse,    Fame,    and    Beauty    are    intense 

indeed, 

But  Death  intenser  —  Death  is  Life's  high 
meed. 


ODE  TO   FANNY 

First  published  in  Life,  Letters  and  Literary 
Remains,  and  there  undated. 

PHYSICIAN  Nature  !  let  my  spirit  blood  ! 

O  ease  my  heart  of  verse  and  let  me  rest; 
Throw  me  upon  thy  Tripod,  till  the  flood 
Of  stifling  numbers  ebbs  from  my  full 

breast. 
A  theme  !   a  theme  !   great  Nature ! 

give  a  theme; 
Let  me  begin  my  dream. 
I  come  —  I  see  thee,  as  thou  standest  there; 
Beckon  me  not  into  the  wintry  air. 


138 


THE   POEMS   OF   1818-1819 


Ah  !  dearest  love,  sweet  home  of  all  my 

fears, 

And  hopes,  and  joys,  and  panting  mis- 
eries, — 

To-night,  if  I  may  guess,  thy  beauty  wears 
A  smile  of  such  delight, 
As  brilliant  and  as  bright, 
As  when  with  ravished,  aching,  vassal 

eyes, 

Lost  in  soft  amaze, 
I  gaze,  I  gaze  ! 

Who  now,  with  greedy  looks,  eats  up  my 

feast  ? 

What  stare  outfaces  now  my  silver  moon ! 
Ah  !  keep  that  hand  unravished  at  the  least ; 
Let,  let  the  amorous  burn  — 
But,  pr'ythee,  do  not  turn 
The  current  of  your  heart  from  me  so 

soon. 

O  !  save,  in  charity, 
The  quickest  pulse  for  me. 

Save  it  for  me,  sweet  love  !  though  music 

breathe 

Voluptuous  visions  into  the  warm  air, 
Though  swimming  through  the  dance's  dan- 
gerous wreath; 
Be  like  an  April  day, 
Smiling  and  cold  and  gay, 
A  temperate  lily,  temperate  as  fair; 
Then,  Heaven  !  there  will  be 
A  warmer  June  for  me. 

Why,  this  —  you  '11  say,  my  Fanny  !  is  not 

true: 

Put  your  soft  hand  upon  your  snowy  side, 
Where   the    heart    beats:    confess  —  'tis 

nothing  new  — 
Must  not  a  woman  be 
A  feather  on  the  sea, 
Sway'd  to  and  fro  by  every  wind  and 

tide? 

Of  as  uncertain  speed 
As  blow-ball  from  the  mead  ? 

I  know  it  —  and  to  know  it  is  despair 
To  one  who  loves  you  as  I  love,  sweet 
Fanny ! 


Whose  heart  goes  fluttering  for  you  every- 
where, 

Nor,  when  away  you  roam, 
Dare  keep  its  wretched  home  : 
Love,  love  alone,  has  pains  severe  and 

many  : 

Then,  loveliest !  keep  me  free 
From  torturing  jealousy. 

Ah  !  if  you  prize  my  subdued  soul  above 
The  poor,  the  fading,  brief  pride  of  an 

hour; 

Let  none  profane  my  Holy  See  of  love, 
Or  with  a  rude  hand  break 
The  sacramental  cake: 
Let  none  else  touch  the  just  new-budded 

flower; 

If  not  —  may  my  eyes  close, 
Love  !  on  their  last  repose. 


A  DREAM,  AFTER  READING 
DANTE'S  EPISODE  OF  PAOLO 
AND  FRANCESCA 

To  George  and  Georgiana  Keats,  April  18  or 
19,  1819,  Keats  writes:  'The  fifth  canto  of 
Dante  pleases  me  more  and  more  —  it  is  that 
one  in  which  he  meets  with  Paolo  and  Fran- 
cesca.  I  had  passed  many  days  in  rather  a 
low  state  of  mind,  and  in  the  midst  of  them  I 
dreamt  of  being  in  that  region  of  Hell.  The 
dream  was  one  of  the  most  delightful  enjoy- 
ments I  ever  had  in  my  life.  I  floated  about 
the  whirling  atmosphere,  as  it  is  described,  with 
a  beautiful  figure,  to  whose  lips  mine  were 
joined  as  it  seemed  for  an  age  —  and  in  the 
midst  of  all  this  cold  and  darkness  I  was  warm 
—  even  flowery  tree-tops  sprung  up,  and  we 
rested  on  them,  sometimes  with  the  lightness 
of  a  cloud,  till  the  wind  blew  us  away  again. 
I  tried  a  sonnet  upon  it  —  there  are  fourteen 
lines,  but  nothing  of  what  I  felt  in  it  —  0  that 
I  could  dream  it  every  night.'  Keats  after- 
wards printed  the  sonnet  in  The  Indicator  for 
June  28,  1820. 

As  Hermes  once  took  to  his  feathers  light, 
When  lulled  Argus,  baffled,  swoon'd  and 

slept 
So  on  a  Delphic  reed,  my  idle  spright 


LA   BELLE   DAME   SANS   MERCI 


So  play'd,  so  charm'd,  so  conquer'd,  so 

bereft 
The  dragon- world  of  all  its  hundred  eyes; 

And,  seeing  it  asleep,  so  fled  away  — 
Not  to  pure  Ida  with  its  snow-cold  skies, 
Nor  unto  Tempe  where  Jove  grieved  a 

day; 
But  to  that  second  circle  of  sad  hell, 

Where  'mid  the  gust,  the  whirlwind,  and 

the  flaw 

Of  rain  and  hail-stones,  lovers  need  not  tell 
Their  sorrows.     Pale  were  the  sweet  lips 

I  saw, 

Pale  were  the  lips  I  kiss'd,  and  fair  the  form 
I  floated  with,  about  that  melancholy  storm. 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI 

Sent  in  a  letter  to  George  and  Georgiana 
Keats,  April  28,  1819,  and  printed  by  Leigh 
Hunt  in  The  Indicator,  May  10,  1820.  Hunt 
says  the  poem  was  suggested  by  that  title  at 
the  head  of  a  translation  from  Alan  Chartier 
at  the  end  of  Chaucer's  works. 


AH,  what  can  ail  thee,  wretched  wight, 
Alone  and  palely  loitering  ? 

The  sedge  is  wither'd  from  the  lake, 
And  no  birds  sing. 


Ah,  what  can  ail  thee,  wretched  wight, 
So  haggard  and  so  woe-begone  ? 

The  squirrel's  granary  is  full, 
And  the  harvest 's  done. 

Ill 
I  see  a  lily  on  thy  brow, 

With  anguish  moist  and  fever  dew; 
And  on  thy  cheek  a  fading  rose 

Fast  withereth  too. 

-  IV 
I  met  a  lady  in  the  meads, 

Full  beautiful  — a  faery's  child; 
Her  hair  was  long,  her  foot  was  light, 

And  her  eyes  were  wild. 


I  set  her  on  my  pacing  steed, 

And  nothing  else  saw  all  day  long, 

For  sideways  would  she  lean,  and  sing 
A  faery's  song. 


VI 


I  made  a  garland  for  her  head, 

And  bracelets  too,  and  fragrant  zone; 

She  look'd  at  me  as  she  did  love, 
And  made  sweet  moan. 

VII 

She  found  me  roots  of  relish  sweet, 
And  honey  wild,  and  manna  dew; 

And  sure  in  language  strange  she  said — 
« I  love  thee  true.' 

VIII 

She  took  me  to  her  elfin  grot, 

And  there  she  gazed,  and  sighed  deep, 
And  there  I  shut  her  wild  wild  eyes 

So  kiss'd  to  sleep. 

IX 

And  there  we  slumber'd  on  the  moss, 
And  there  I  dream'd  —  Ah  !  woe  betide  ! 

The  latest  dream  I  ever  dream'd 
On  the  cold  hill  side. 


I  saw  pale  kings,  and  princes  too, 

Pale  warriors,  death-pale  were  they  all; 

They  cried  —  *  La  Belle  Dame  sans  Merci 
Hath  thee  in  thrall ! ' 

XI 
I  saw  their  starved  lips  in  the  gloam, 

With  horrid  warning  gaped  wide, 
And  I  awoke,  and  found  me  here 

On  the  cold  hill  side. 

XII 

And  this  is  why  I  sojourn  here, 

Alone  and  palely  loitering, 
Though  the   sedge   is  wither'd  from   the 
lake, 

And  no  birds  sing. 


140 


THE  POEMS   OF   1818-1819 


CHORUS   OF   FAIRIES 

Inclosed  in  a  letter  to  George  and  Georgiana 
Keats,  April  28,  1819,  and  printed  in  Life, 
Letters  and  Literary  Remains. 

FIRE,  AIR,  EARTH,  AND  WATER 

SALAMANDER,   ZEPHYR,   DUSKETHA,  AND 

BREAMA 

SALAMANDER 

HAPPY,  happy  glowing  fire  1 

ZEPHYR 

Fragrant  air  !  delicious  light ! 

DUSKETHA 

Let  me  to  my  glooms  retire  ! 

BREAMA 

I  to  green-weed  rivers  bright ! 

SALAMANDER 

Happy,  happy  glowing  fire  ! 

Dazzling  bowers  of  soft  retire, 

Ever  let  my  nourish'd  wing, 

Like  a  bat's,  still  wandering, 

Faintly  fan  your  fiery  spaces, 

Spirit  sole  in  deadly  places.  10 

In  unhaunted  roar  and  blaze, 

Open  eyes  that  never  daze, 

Let  me  see  the  myriad  shapes 

Of  men,  and  beasts,  and  fish,  and  apes, 

Portray'd  in  many  a  fiery  den, 

And  wrought  by  spumy  bitumen. 

On  the  deep  intenser  roof, 

Arched  every  way,  aloof, 

Let  me  breathe  upon  my  skies, 

And  anger  their  live  tapestries;  20 

Free  from  cold,  and  every  care, 

Of  chilly  rain,  and  shivering  air. 

ZEPHYR 

Spright  of  Fire  !  away  !  away  ! 
Or  your  very  roundelay 
Will  sear  my  plumage  newly  budded 
From  its  quilled  sheath,  and  studded 
With  the  self-same  dews  that  fell 
On  the  May-grown  Asphodel. 
Spright  of  Fire  —  away  !  away  ! 


BREAMA 

Spright  of  Fire  —  away  !  away  !  30 

Zephyr,  blue-eyed  Faery,  turn, 
And  see  my  cool  sedge-shaded  urn, 
Where  it  rests  its  mossy  brim 
'Mid  water-mint  and  cresses  dim; 
And  the  flowers,  in  sweet  troubles, 
Lift  their  eyes  above  the  bubbles, 
Like  our  Queen,  when  she  would  please 
To  sleep,  and  Oberon  will  tease. 
Love  me,  blue-eyed  Faery  !  true, 
Soothly  I  am  sick  for  you.  4Q 

ZEPHYR 

Gentle  Breama  !  by  the  first 

Violet  young  nature  nurst, 

I  will  bathe  myself  with  thee, 

So  you  sometime  follow  me 

To  my  home,  far,  far,  in  west, 

Far  beyond  the  search  and  quest 

Of  the  golden-browed  sun. 

Come  with  me,  o'er  tops  of  trees, 

To  my  fragrant  palaces, 

Where  they  ever  floating  are  5o 

Beneath  the  cherish  of  a  star 

Call'd  Vesper,  who  with  silver  veil 

Ever  hides  his  brilliance  pale, 

Ever  gently-drowsed  doth  keep 

Twilight  for  the  Fays  to  sleep. 

Fear  not  that  your  watery  hair 

Will  thirst  in  drouthy  ringlets  there; 

Clouds  of  stored  summer  rains 

Thou  shalt  taste,  before  the  stains 

Of  the  mountain  soil  they  take,  60 

And  too  unlucent  for  thee  make. 

I  love  thee,  crystal  Faery,  true  ! 

Sooth  I  am  as  sick  for  you  ! 

SALAMANDER 

Out,  ye  aguish  Faeries,  out ! 

Chilly  lovers,  what  a  rout 

Keep  ye  with  your  frozen  breath, 

Colder  than  the  mortal  death. 

Adder-eyed  Dusketha,  speak, 

Shall  we  leave  them,  and  go  seek 

In  the  earth's  wide  entrails  old  70 

Couches  warm  as  theirs  is  cold  ? 

O  for  a  fiery  gloom  and  thee, 


FAERY   SONGS 


141 


Dusketha,  so  enchantingly 
Freckle-wing'd  and  lizard-sided  ! 

DUSKETHA 

By  thee,  Spright,  will  I  be  guided  ! 

I  care  not  for  cold  or  heat; 

Frost  and  flame,  or  sparks,  or  sleet, 

To  my  essence  are  the  same ;  — 

But  I  honour  more  the  flame. 

Spright  of  fire,  I  follow  thee  80 

Wheresoever  it  may  be; 

To  the  torrid  spouts  and  fountains, 

Underneath  earth-quaked  mountains; 

Or,  at  thy  supreme  desire, 

Touch  the  very  pulse  of  fire 

With  my  bare  unlidded  eyes. 

SALAMANDER 

Sweet  Dusketha  !  paradise  ! 
Off,  ye  icy  Spirits,  fly  ! 
Frosty  creatures  of  the  sky  ! 

DUSKETHA 

Breathe  upon  them,  fiery  Spright !  90 

ZEPHYR,  BREAM  A  (to  each  other) 
Away  !  away  to  our  delight ! 

SALAMANDER 

Go,  feed  on  icicles,  while  we 
Bedded  in  tongued  flames  will  be. 

DUSKETHA 

Lead  me  to  these  fev'rous  glooms, 
Spright  of  Fire  ! 


Me  to  the  blooms, 
Blue  eyed  Zephyr  of  those  flowers 
Far  in  the  west  where  the  May -cloud  lowers: 
And  the  beams  of  still  Vesper,  where 

winds  are  all  whist, 
Are  shed  thro'  the  rain  and  the  milder 

mist, 
And  twilight  your  floating  bowers.  100 

FAERY   SONGS 

These  two  songs  are  given  in  Life,  Letters 
anrf  Literary  Remains,  but  without  date.     It 


seems  not  inapt  to  place  them  near  the  Song  of 
Four  Fairies. 


SHED  no  tear  !     O  shed  no  tear  ! 
The  flower  will  bloom  another  year. 
Weep  no  more  !     O  weep  no  more  ! 
Young  buds  sleep  in  the  root's  white  core. 
Dry  your  eyes  !     O  dry  your  eyes, 
For  I  was  taught  in  Paradise 
To  ease  my  breast  of  melodies  — 
Shed  no  tear. 

Overhead  !  look  overhead 
'Mong  the  blossoms  white  and  red  — 
Look  up,  look  up  —  I  flutter  now 
On  this  flush  pomegranate  bough. 
See  me  !  't  is  this  silvery  bill 
Ever  cures  the  good  man's  ill. 
Shed  no  tear  !     O  shed  no  tear  ! 
The  flower  will  bloom  another  year. 
Adieu,  Adieu  —  I  fly,  adieu, 
I  vanish  in  the  heaven's  blue  — 

Adieu,  Adieu ! 

II 

Ah  !  woe  is  me  !  poor  silver-wing  ! 

That  I  must  chant  thy  lady's  dirge, 
And  death  to  this  fair  haunt  of  spring, 
Of    melody,    and    streams    of    flowery 
verge,  — 

Poor  silver-wing  !  ah  !  woe  is  me  ! 
That  I  must  see 

These  blossoms  snow  upon  thy  lady's  pall ! 
Go,  pretty  page  !  and  in  her  ear 
Whisper  that  the  hour  is  near  ! 
Softly  tell  her  not  to  fear 
Such  calm  favonian  burial ! 

Go,  pretty  page  !  and  soothly  tell,  — 

The  blossoms  hang  by  a  melting  spell, 

And  fall  they  must,  ere  a  star  wink  thrice 

Upon  her  closed  eyes, 
That  now  in  vain  are  weeping  their  last 

tears, 
At  sweet  life  leaving,  and  those  arbours 

green,— 

Rich    dowry    from    the     Spirit    of     the 
Spheres,  — 

Alas  !  poor  Queen  ! 


142 


THE   POEMS   OF   1818-1819 


ON    FAME 

'  You  cannot  eat  your  cake  and  have  it  too.'  —  Proverb. 

Sent  with  the  next  two  to  George  and  Georgi- 
ana  Keats,  April  30,  1819,  and  printed  in  Life, 
Letters  and  Literary  Remains. 

How  fever'd  is  that  man,  who  cannot  look 
Upon  his   mortal  days  with   temperate 

blood, 

Who  vexes  all  the  leaves  of  his  life's  book, 
And  robs  his  fair  name  of  its  maiden- 
hood: 
It  is  as  if  the  rose  should  pluck  herself, 

Or  the  ripe  plum  finger  its  misty  bloom; 
As  if  a  Naiad,  like  a  meddling  elf, 

Should  darken  her  pure  grot  with  muddy 

gloom. 

But  the  rose  leaves  herself  upon  the  brier, 
For  winds  to  kiss  and  grateful  bees  to 

feed, 

And  the  ripe  plum  still  wears  its  dim  at- 
tire, 

The  undisturbed  lake  has  crystal  space: 
Why   then   should   man,   teasing   the 

world  for  grace, 
Spoil  his  salvation  for  a  fierce  miscreed  ? 


ANOTHER   ON   FAME 
• 

FAME,  like  a  wayward  girl,  will  still  be  coy 
To  those  who  woo  her  with  too  slavish 

knees, 
But  makes  surrender  to  some  thoughtless 

boy, 

And  dotes  the  more  upon  a  heart  at  ease ; 
She  is  a  Gipsy,  —  will  not  speak  to  those 
Who  have  not  learnt  to  be  content  with- 
out her; 
A  Jilt,   whose   ear  was   never  whisper'd 

close, 
Who  thinks  they  scandal  her  who  talk 

about  her; 
A  very  Gipsy  is  she,  Nilus-born, 

Sister-in-law  to  jealous  Potiphar; 
Ye  lovesick  Bards  !   repay  her  scorn  for 


Ye  Artists  lovelorn !  madmen   that   ye 

are  ! 

Make  your  best  bow  to  her  and  bid  adieu, 
Then,  if  she  likes  it,  she  will  follow  you. 


TO    SLEEP 

O  SOFT  embalmer  of  the  still  midnight, 

Shutting,  with  careful  fingers  and  benign, 
Our  gloom-pleased  eyes,  embower 'd  from 

the  light, 

Enshaded  in  forgetfulness  divine: 
O   soothest   Sleep !    if  so  it  please   thee, 

close, 
In  midst  of  this  thine  hymn,  my  willing 

eyes, 

Or  wait  the  amen,  ere  thy  poppy  throws 
Around  my  bed  its  dewy  charities; 
Then  save  me,  or  the  passed  day  will 

shine 

Upon  my  pillow,  breeding  many  woes; 
Save  me  from  curious  conscience,  that 

still  lords 
Its  strength  for  darkness,  burrowing  like  a 

mole ; 

Turn  the  key  deftly  in  the  oiled  wards, 
And  seal  the  hushed  casket  of  my  soul. 


ODE   TO    PSYCHE 

'  The  following  poem  —  the  last  I  have  writ- 
ten —  is  the  first  and  only  one  with  which  I  have 
taken  even  moderate  pains.  I  have,  for  the 
most  part,  dashed  off  my  lines  in  a  hurry.  This 
I  have  done  leisurely  —  I  think  it  reads  the  more 
richly  for  it,  and  will  I  hope  encourage  me  to 
write  other  things  in  even  a  more  peaceable 
and  healthy  spirit.  You  must  recollect  that 
Psyche  was  not  embodied  as  a  goddess  before 
the  time  of  Apuleius  the  Platonist,  who  lived 
after  the  Augustan  age,  and  consequently  the 
Goddess  was  never  worshipped  or  sacrificed  to 
with  any  of  the  ancient  fervour  —  and  perhaps 
never  thought  of  in  the  old  religion  —  I  am 
more  orthodox  than  to  let  a  heathen  Goddess 
be  so  neglected.'  Keats  to  his  Brother  and 
Sister,  April  30,  1819.  He  afterward  included 
the  poem  in  his  volume,  Lamia,  Isabella,  The 
Eve  of  St.  Agnes  and  other  Poems,  1820. 


ODE   TO    PSYCHE 


'43 


0  GODDESS  !  hear  these  tuneless  numbers, 

wrung 
By  sweet  enforcement  and  remembrance 

dear, 
And  pardon  that  thy  secrets  should  be  sung 

Even  into  thine  own  soft-conched  ear: 
Surely  I  dreamt  to-day,  or  did  I  see 

The  winged  Psyche  with  awaken'd  eyes  ? 

1  wander'd  in  a  forest  thoughtlessly, 
And,  on  the  sudden,  fainting  with  sur- 
prise, 

Saw  two  fair  creatures,  couched  side  by  side 

In  deepest  grass,  beneath  the  whisp'ring 

roof  10 

Of  leaves  and  trembled  blossoms,  where 

there  ran 

A  brooklet,  scarce  espied: 


'Mid  hush'd,  cool-rooted  flowers  fragrant- 
eyed, 

Blue,  silver-white,  and  budded  Tyrian, 
They   lay  calm-breathing   on   the   bedded 

grass; 
Their  arms  embraced,  and  their  pinions 

too; 
Their  lips  touch'd  not,  but  had  not  bade 

adieu, 

As  if  disjoined  by  soft-handed  slumber, 
And  ready  still  past  kisses  to  outnumber 
At  tender  eye-dawn  of  aurorean  love :  20 

The  winged  boy  I  knew; 
But  who  wast  thou,O  happy,  happy  dove  ? 
His  Psyche  true  ! 

in 

O  latest-born  and  loveliest  vision  far 
Of  all  Olympus'  faded  hierarchy  ! 
Fairer  than  Phrebe's  sapphire-region'd  star, 
Or  Vesper,  amorous  glow-worm  of  the 

sky; 

Fairer  than  these,  though  temple  thou  hast 
none, 

Nor  altar  heap'd  with  flowers; 
Nor  virgin-choir  to  make  delicious  moan 

Upon  the  midnight  hours;  3i 


No  voice,  no  lute,  no  pipe,  no  incense  sweet 
From  chain-swung  censer  teeming; 

No  shrine,  no  grove,  no  oracle,  no  heat 
Of  pale-mouth'd  prophet  dreaming. 

IV 

0  brightest !  though  too  late  for  antique 

vows, 

Too,  too  late  for  the  fond  believing  lyre, 
When  holy  were  the  haunted  forest  boughs, 

Holy  the  air,  the  water,  and  the  fire; 
Yet  even  in  these  days  so  far  retired        40 

From  happy  pieties,  thy  lucent  fans, 

Fluttering  among  the  faint  Olympians, 

1  see,  and  sing,  by  my  own  eyes  inspired. 
So  let  me  be  thy  choir,  and  make  a  moan 

Upon  the  midnight  hours; 
Thy  voice,  thy  lute,  thy  pipe,  thy  incense 

sweet 

From  swinged  censer  teeming; 
Thy  shrine,  thy  grove,  thy  oracle,  thy  heat 
Of  pale-mouth'd  prophet  dreaming. 


Yes,  I  will  be  thy  priest,  and  build  a  fane 
In  some  untrodden  region  of  my  mind, 
Where  branched  thoughts,  new-grown  with 
pleasant  pain,  52 

Instead  of   pines   shall   murmur  in  the 

wind: 
Far,  far  around  shall  those  dark-cluster'd 

trees 
Fledge  the  wild-ridged  mountains  steep 

by  steep; 
And  there  by  zephyrs,  streams,  and  birds, 

and  bees, 
The  moss-lain  Dryads  shall  be  lulled  to 

sleep; 

And  in  the  midst  of  this  wide  quietness 
A  rosy  sanctuary  will  I  dress 
With  the   wreath'd   trellis   of   a   working 
brain,  6« 

With  buds,  and  bells,  and  stars  without 

a  name, 
With  all  the  gardener  Fancy  e'er  could 

feign, 

Who  breeding  flowers,  will  never  breed 
the  same: 


144 


THE   POEMS   OF   1818-1819 


And  there  shall  be  for  thee  all  soft  delight 
That  shadowy  thought  can  win, 

A  bright  torch,  and   a  casement  ope  at 
night, 

To  let  the  warm  Love  in  ! 


SONNET 

In  copying  his  *  Ode  to  Psyche,'  Keats  added 
the  flourish  '  Here  endethe  ye  Ode  to  Psyche,' 
and  went  on  *  Incipit  altera  soneta.'  '  I  have 
been  endeavouring,'  he  writes,  'to  discover  a 
better  Sonnet  Stanza  than  we  have.  The  legiti- 
mate does  not  suit  the  language  over  well  from 
the  pouncing  rhymes  —  the  other  kind  appears 
too  elegiac  —  and  the  couplet  at  the  end  of  it 
has  seldom  a  pleasing  effect  —  I  do  not  pre- 
tend to  have  succeeded  —  it  will  explain  itself.' 
The  sonnet  was  printed  in  Life,  Letters  and  Lit- 
erary Remains. 

IF  by  dull  rhymes  our  English  must  be 

chain'd, 

And,  like  Andromeda,  the  Sonnet  sweet 
Fetter'd,  in  spite  of  pained  loveliness; 
Let  us  find  out,  if  we  must  be  constraint, 
Sandals  more  interwoven  and  complete 
To  fit  the  naked  foot  of  poesy; 
Let  us  inspect  the  lyre,  and  weigh  the 

stress 
Of  every  chord,   and  see   what  may  be 

gain'd 

By  ear  industrious,  and  attention  meet; 
Misers  of  sound  and  syllable,  no  less 
Than  Midas  of  his  coinage,  let  us  be 

Jealous  of  dead  leaves  in  the  bay-wreath 

crown: 

So,  if  we  may  not  let  the  Muse  be  free, 
She  will  be  bound  with  garlands  of  her 
own. 

ODE   TO   A   NIGHTINGALE 

First  published  in  the  July,  1819,  Annals  of 
the  Fine  Arts  and  included  in  the  1820  volume. 
It  was  composed  in  May,  1819.  In  the  Aldine 
edition  of  1876  Lord  Hough  ton  prefixes  this 
note:  'In  the  spring  of  1819  a  nightingale 
built  her  nest  next  Mr.  Be  van's  house.  Keats 


took  great  pleasure  in  her  song,  and  one  morn- 
ing took  his  chair  from  the  breakfast  table  to 
the  grass  plot  under  a  plum  tree,  where  he 
remained  between  two  and  three  hours.  He 
then  reached  the  house  with  some  scraps  of 
paper  in  his  hand,  which  he  soon  put  together 
in  the  form  of  this  Ode.'  Hay  don  in  a  letter 
to  Miss  Mitf  ord  says :  '  The  death  of  his  bro- 
ther [in  December,  1818]  wounded  him  deeply, 
and  it  appeared  to  me  from  that  hour  he  began 
to  droop.  He  wrote  his  exquisite  '  Ode  to  the 
Nightingale  '  at  this  time,  and  as  we  were  one 
evening  walking  in  the  Kilburn  meadows  he 
repeated  it  to  me,  before  he  put  it  to  paper,  in 
a  low,  tremulous  undertone  which  affected  me 
extremely.'  It  may  well  be  that  Tom  Keats 
was  in  the  poet's  mind  when  he  wrote  line  26. 


MY  heart  aches,  and  a  drowsy  numbness 

pains 
My  sense,  as  though  of  hemlock  I  had 

drunk, 

Or  emptied  some  dull  opiate  to  the  drains 
One  minute  past,  and  Lethe-wards  had 

sunk: 

'T  is  not  through  envy  of  thy  happy  lot, 
But  being  too  happy  in  thine  happiness,  — 
That  thou,  light-winged  Dryad  of  the 
trees, 

In  some  melodious  plot 
Of  beechen  green,  and  shadows  number- 
less, 
Singest  of    summer  in    full-throated 


II 

O  for  a  draught  of  vintage  !  that  hath  been 
Cool'd   a  long  age   in  the  deep-delved 

earth, 

Tasting  of  Flora  and  the  country-green, 
Dance,   and   Provencal   song,   and   sun- 
burnt mirth  ! 

O  for  a  beaker  full  of  the  warm  South, 
Full  of   the   true,  the   blushful   Hippo- 

crene, 

With  beaded  bubbles  winking  at  the 
brim, 

And  purple-stained  mouth  ; 


ODE  TO   A   NIGHTINGALE 


'45 


That  I  might  drink,  and  leave  the  world 

unseen, 

And  with  thee  fade  away  into  the  for- 
est dim:  20 

in 

Fade  far  away,  dissolve,  and  quite  forget 
What  thou  among  the  leaves  hast  never 

known, 

The  weariness,  the  fever,  and  the  fret 
Here,  where  men  sit  and  hear  each  other 

groan; 
Where  palsy  shakes  a  few,  sad,  last  gray 

hairs, 

Where  youth  grows  pale,  and  spectre- 
thin,  and  dies; 

Where  but  to  think  is  to  be  full  of 
sorrow 

And  leaden-eyed  despairs, 
Where  Beauty  cannot  keep  her  lustrous 

eyes, 

Or  new  Love  pine  at  them  beyond  to- 
morrow. 30 

IV 

Away  !  away  !  for  I  will  fly  to  thee, 

Not  charioted  by  Bacchus  and  his  pards, 
But  on  the  viewless  wings  of  Poesy, 

Though  the  dull  brain  perplexes  and  re- 
tards : 

Already  with  thee  !  tender  is  the  night, 
And  haply  the  Queen-Moon  is  on  her 

throne, 

Cluster'd   around    by   all   her    starry 
Fays; 

But  here  there  is  no  light, 
Save  what  from  heaven  is  with  the  breezes 

blown 

Through  verdurous  glooms  and  wind- 
ing mossy  ways.  40 


I  cannot  see  what  flowers  are  at  my  feet, 
Nor  what  soft  incense  hangs  upon  the 

boughs, 
But,   in  embalmed  darkness,   guess  each 

sweet 


Wherewith   the   seasonable    month   en- 
dows 
The  grass,  the  thicket,  and  the  fruit-tree 

wild; 

White  hawthorn,  and  the  pastoral  eglan- 
tine; 

Fast    fading    violets    cover'd    up    in 
leaves; 

And  mid-May's  eldest  child, 
The  coming  musk-rose,  full    of    dewy 

wine, 

The  murmurous  haunt  of  flies  on  sum- 
mer eves.  50 

VI 

Darkling  I  listen;  and,  for  many  a  time 
I  have  been  half  in  love  with  easeful 

Death, 
Call'd  him  soft  names  in  many  a  mused 

rhyme, 

To  take  into  the  air  my  quiet  breath; 
Now  more  than  ever  seems  it  rich  to  die, 
To  cease   upon  the   midnight   with  no 

pain, 

While  thou  art  pouring  forth  thy  soul 
abroad 

In  such  an  ecstasy  ! 
Still  would  st  thou  sing,  and  I  have  ears 

in  vain  — 
To  thy  high  requiem  become  a  sod.  60 

VII 

Thou  wast  not  born  for  death,  immortal 

Bird! 

No  hungry  generations  tread  thee  down; 
The  voice  I  hear  this  passing  night  was 

heard 

In  ancient  days  by  emperor  and  clown : 
Perhaps  the  self-same  song   that  found  a 

path 
Through  the  sad  heart  of  Ruth,  when, 

sick  for  home, 
She  stood  in  tears  amid  the  alien  corn; 

The  same  that  oft-times  hath 
Charm'd  magic   casements,  opening  on 

the  foam 

Of  perilous  seas,  in  faery  lands  for- 
lorn. 7o 


i46 


THE   POEMS   OF   1818-1819 


VIII 

Forlorn  !  the  very  word  is  like  a  bell 
To  toll  me  back  from  thee  to  my  sole 

self! 

Adieu  !  the  fancy  cannot  cheat  so  well 
As  she  is  famed  to  do,  deceiving  elf. 
Adieu  !  adieu  !  thy  plaintive  anthem  fades 
Past  the  near  meadows,  over  the  still 

stream, 

Up  the  hill-side;  and  now  'tis  buried 
deep 

In  the  next  valley-glades: 
Was  it  a  vision,  or  a  waking  dream  ? 
Fled  is  that  music:  —  do   I  wake  or 


LAMIA 

In  the  early  summer  of  1819  Keats  felt  the 
pressure  of  want  of  money  and  determined  to 
go  into  the  country,  where  he  could  live  cheaply, 
and  devote  himself  to  writing.  He  went  ac- 
cordingly to  Shanklin,  Isle  of  Wight,  and  wrote 
thence  to  Reynolds,  July  12,  '  I  have  finished 
the  Act  [the  first  of  Otho  the  Great],  and  in  the 
interval  of  beginning  the  2nd  have  proceeded 
pretty  well  with  Lamia,  finishing  the  first  part 
which  consists  of  about  400  lines.  I  have 
great  hope  of  success  [in  this  enterprise  of 
maintenance] ,  because  I  make  use  of  my  judg- 
ment more  deliberately  than  I  have  yet  done.' 
He  continued  to  work  at  Lamia  in  connection 
with  the  tragedy,  completing  it  in  August  at 
Winchester.  It  formed  the  leading  poem  in  the 
volume  Lamia,  Isabella,  the  Eve  of  St.  Agnes 
and  other  Poems,  published  in  1820.  Keats's 
own  judgment  of  it  is  in  his  words :  '  I  am  cer- 
tain there  is  that  sort  of  fire  in  it  which  must 
take  hold  of  people  in  some  way  —  give  them 
either  pleasant  or  unpleasant  association.'  He 
found  the  germ  of  the  story  in  Burton's  Anat- 
omy of  Melancholy,  where  it  is  credited  to  Phi- 
lostratus.  The  passage  will  be  found  in  the 
Notes.  Lord  Houghton  says,  on  the  authority 
of  Brown,  that  Keats  wrote  the  poem  after 
much  study  of  Dryden's  versification. 

PART  I 

UPON  a  time,  before  the  faery  broods 
Drove  Nymph   and   Satyr  from  the  pro- 
sperous woods, 


Before  King  Oberon's  bright  diadem, 
Sceptre,  and  mantle,  clasp'd  with  dewy  gem, 
Frighted  away  the  Dryads  and  the  Fauns 
From  rushes  green,  and  brakes,  and  cow- 

slipp'd  lawns, 

The  ever-smitten  Hermes  empty  left 
His  golden  throne,  bent  warm  on  amorous 

theft; 

From  high  Olympus  had  he  stolen  light, 
On  this  side  of  Jove's  clouds,  to  escape  the 

sight  10 

Of  his  great  summoner,  and  made  retreat 
Into  a  forest  on  the  shores  of  Crete. 
For  somewhere  in  that  sacred  island  dwelt 
A  nymph,  to  whom  all  hoofed  Satyrs  knelt; 
At  whose  white  feet  the  languid  Tritons 

poured 
Pearls,  while  on   land   they  wither'd   and 

adored. 
Fast  by  the  springs  where  she  to  bathe  was 

wont, 
And  in  those  meads  where  sometimes  she 

might  haunt, 
Were  strewn  rich   gifts,  unknown  to  any 

Muse, 
Though  Fancy's  casket  were  unlock'd  to 

choose.  20 

Ah,  what  a  world  of  love  was  at  her  feet ! 
So  Hermes  thought,  and  a  celestial  heat 
Burnt  from  his  winged  heels  to  either  ear, 
That  from  a  whiteness,  as  the  lily  clear, 
BlushM  into  roses  'mid  his  golden  hair, 
Fallen  in  jealous  curls  about  his  shoulders 

bare. 

From  vale  to  vale,  from  wood  to  wood, 

he  flew, 

Breathing  upon  the  flowers  his  passion  new, 
And  wound  with  many  a  river  to  its  head, 
To  find  where  this  sweet  nymph  prepared 

her  secret  bed:  30 

In  vain;  the  sweet  nymph  might  nowhere 

be  found, 

And  so  he  rested,  on  the  lonely  ground, 
Pensive,  and  full  of  painful  jealousies 
Of  the  Wood-Gods,  and  even  the  very  trees. 
There  as  he  stood,  he  heard  a  mournful 

voice, 


LAMIA 


Such  as  once  heard,  in  gentle  heart,  de- 
stroys 

All  pain  but  pity:  thus  the  lone  voice  spake : 
*  When  from  this  wreathed  tomb  shall  I 

awake  ! 

When  move  in  a  sweet  body  fit  for  life, 
And   love,  and   pleasure,   and   the   ruddy 
strife  40 

Of  hearts  and  lips  !     Ah,  miserable  me  ! ' 
The  God,  dove-footed,  glided  silently 
Round  bush  and  tree,  soft -brushing,  in  his 

speed, 

The  taller  grasses  and  full-flowering  weed, 
Until  he  found  a  palpitating  snake, 
Bright,   and   cirque-couchant   in   a   dusky 
brake. 

She  was  a  gordian  shape  of  dazzling  hue, 

Vermilion  -  spotted,  golden,  green,  and 
blue; 

Striped  like  a  zebra,  freckled  like  a  pard, 

Eyed  like  a  peacock,  and  all  crimson  barr'd; 

And  full  of  silver  moons,  that,  as  she 
breathed,  51 

Dissolved,  or  brighter  shone,  or  inter- 
wreathed 

Their  lustres  with  the  gloomier  tapes- 
tries — 

So  rainbow-sided,  touch'd  with  miseries, 

She  seem'd,  at  once,  some  penanced  lady 
elf, 

Some  demon's  mistress,  or  the  demon's 
self. 

Upon  her  crest  she  wore  a  wannish  fire 

Sprinkled  with  stars,  like  Ariadne's  tiar: 

Her  head  was  serpent,  but  ah,  bitter-sweet ! 

She  had  a  woman's  mouth  with  all  its 
pearls  complete:  60 

And  for  her  eyes  —  what  could  such  eyes 
do  there 

But  weep,  and  weep,  that  they  were  born 
so  fair  ? 

As  Proserpine  still  weeps  for  her  Sicilian 
air. 

Her  throat  was  serpent,  but  the  words  she 
spake 

Came,  as  through  bubbling  honey,  for 
Love's  sake, 


And  thus  ;  while  Hermes  on  his  pinions  lay, 
Like  a  stoop'd  falcon  ere  he  takes  his  prey: 

'  Fair  Hermes  !  crown'd  with  feathers, 

fluttering  light, 

I  had  a  splendid  dream  of  thee  last  night: 
I  saw  thee  sitting,  on  a  throne  of  gold,     70 
Among  the  Gods,  upon  Olympus  old, 
The  only  sad  one;  for  thou  didst  not  hear 
The    soft,   lute  -  finger'd  Muses   chanting 

clear, 

Nor  even  Apollo  when  he  sang  alone, 
Deaf  to  his  throbbing  throat's  long,  long 

melodious  moan. 

I  dreamt  I  saw  thee,  robed  in  purple  flakes, 
Break    amorous   through    the    clouds,   as 

morning  breads, 

And,  swiftly  as  a  bright  Phoebean  dart, 
Strike  for  the  Cretan  isle;  and  here  thou 

art ! 
Too  gentle  Hermes,  hast  thou  found  the 

maid  ? '  8« 

Whereat  the  star  of  Lethe  not  delay'd 
His  rosy  eloquence,  and  thus  inquired: 
'  Thou  smooth-lipp'd  serpent,  surely  high- 
inspired  ! 
Thou  beauteous  wreath,  with  melancholy 

eyes, 

Possess  whatever  bliss  thou  canst  devise, 
Telling  me  only  where  my  nymph  is  fled,  — 
Where  she  doth  breathe  ! '   '  Bright  planet, 

thou  hast  said,' 
Return'd  the  snake,  *  but  seal  with  oaths, 

fair  God  ! ' 

'  I  swear,'  said  Hermes,  «  by  my  serpent  rod, 
And    by   thine   eyes,   and    by   thy   starry 

crown  ! '  90 

Light  flew  his  earnest  words,  among  the 

blossoms  blown. 

Then  thus  again  the  brilliance  feminine : 
*  Too  frail  of  heart !  for  this  lost  nymph  of 

thine, 

Free  as  the  air,  invisibly,  she  strays 
About  these  thornless  wilds;  her  pleasant 

days 
She    tastes    unseen ;   unseen    her    nimble 

feet 
Leave  traces  in  the  grass  and  flowers  sweet; 


148 


THE   POEMS   OF   1818-1819 


From  weary  tendrils,  and  bow'd  branches 

green, 

She  plucks  the  fruit  unseen,  she  bathes  un- 
seen: 

And  by  my  power  is  her  beauty  veil'd     100 
To  keep  it  unaffronted,  unassail'd 
By  the  love-glances  of  unlovely  eyes, 
Of  Satyrs,  Fauns,  and  blear'd  Silenus'  sighs. 
Pale  grew  her  immortality,  for  woe 
Of  all  these  lovers,  and  she  grieved  so 
I  took  compassion  on  her,  bade  her  steep 
Her  hair  in  weird  syrops,  that  would  keep 
Her  loveliness  invisible,  yet  free 
To  wander  as  she  loves,  in  liberty. 
Thou  shalt  behold  her,  Hermes,  thou  alone, 
If  thou  wilt,  as  thou  swearest,  grant  my 

boon ! '  in 

Then,  once  again,  the  charmed  God  began 
An  oath,  and  through  the  serpent's  ears  it 

ran 

Warm,  tremulous,  devout,  psalterian. 
Ravish'd  she  lifted  her  Circean  head, 
Blush'd  a  live  damask,  and  swift-lisping 

said, 

« I  was  a  woman,  let  me  have  once  more 
A  woman's  shape,  and  charming  as  before. 
I  love  a  youth  of  Corinth  —  O  the  bliss  ! 
Give  me  my  woman's  form,  and  place  me 

where  he  is.  120 

Stoop,  Hermes,  let  me  breathe  upon  thy 

brow, 
And  thou  shalt  see  thy  sweet  nymph  even 

now.' 

The  God  on  half-shut  feathers  sank  serene, 
She  breathed  upon  his  eyes,  and  swift  was 

seen 
Of  both  the  guarded  nymph  near-smiling 

on  the  green. 

It  was  no  dream;  or  say  a  dream  it  was, 
Real  are  the  dreams  of  Gods,  and  smoothly 


Their  pleasures  in  a  long  immortal  dream. 
One  warm,  flush'd  moment,  hovering,  it 

might  seem 
Dash'd  by  the  wood-nymph's  beauty,  so  he 

burn'd ;  130 

Then,  lighting  on  the  printless  verdure, 

turn'd 


To  the  swoon'd  serpent,  and  with  languid 

arm, 
Delicate,  put  to  proof  the  lithe  Caducean 

charm. 

So  done,  upon  the  nymph  his  eyes  he  bent 
Full  of  adoring  tears  and  blandishment, 
And  towards  her  stept:  she,  like  a  moon  in 

wane, 

Faded  before  him,  cower'd,  nor  could  re- 
strain 

Her  fearful  sobs,  self -folding  like  a  flower 
That  faints  into  itself  at  evening  hour: 
But  the  God  fostering  her  chilled  hand,  140 
She  felt  the  warmth,  her  eyelids  open'd 

bland, 
And,  like  new  flowers  at  morning  song  of 

bees, 
Bloom'd,  and  gave  up  her  honey  to   the 

lees. 

Into  the  green-recessed  woods  they  flew;. 
Nor  grew  they  pale,  as  mortal  lovers  do. 

Left  to  herself,  the  serpent  now  began 
To  change ;  her  elfin  blood  in  madness  ran, 
Her  mouth  foam'd,  and  the  grass,  there- 
with besprent, 

Wither'd  at  dew  so  sweet  and  virulent; 
Her  eyes    in  torture   fix'd,   and    anguish 
drear,  150 

Hot,  glazed,  and  wide,  with  lid-lashes  all 


Flash'd  phosphor  and  sharp  sparks,  without 

one  cooling  tear. 
The  colours   all   inflamed  throughout   her 

train, 
She  writhed  about,  convulsed  with  scarlet 

pain: 

A  deep  volcanian  yellow  took  the  place 
Of  all  her  milder-mooned  body's  grace; 
And,  as  the  lava  ravishes  the  mead, 
Spoilt  all  her  silver  mail,  and  golden  brede : 
Made  gloom  of  all  her  frecklings,  streaks 

and  bars, 
Eclipsed  her  crescents,  and  lick'd  up  her 

stars:  160 

So  that,  in  moments  few,  she  was  undrest 
Of  all  her  sapphires,  greens,  and  amethyst, 
And  rubious-argent:  of  all  these  bereft, 


LAMIA 


149 


Nothing  but  pain  and  ugliness  were  left. 
Still  shone  her  crown;  that  vanish'd,  also 

she 

Melted  and  disappear'd  as  suddenly; 
And  in  the  air,  her  new  voice  luting  soft, 
Cried,  'Lycius!   gentle   Lycius!'  —  Borne 

aloft 
With  the  bright  mists  about  the  mountains 

hoar 
These    words    dissolved :    Crete's    forests 

heard  no  more.  170 

Whither  fled  Lamia,  now  a  lady  bright, 
A  full-born  beauty  new  and  exquisite  ? 
She  fled  into  that  valley  they  pass  o'er 
Who  go  to  Corinth  from  Cenchreas'  shore: 
And  rested  at  the  foot  of  those  wild  hills, 
The  rugged  founts  of  the  Peraean  rills, 
And  of  that  other  ridge  whose  barren  back 
Stretches,    with   all    its   mist   and  cloudy 

rack, 

South-westward    to    Cleone.      There    she 
stood  179 

About  a  young  bird's  flutter  from  a  wood, 
Fair,  on  a  sloping  green  of  mossy  tread, 
By  a  clear  pool,  wherein  she  passioned 
To  see  herself  escaped  from  so  sore  ills, 
While  her  robes  flaunted  with  the  daffo- 
dils. 

Ah,  happy  Lycius  !  —  for  she  was  a  maid 
More  beautiful  than  ever  twisted  braid, 
Or  sigh'd,  or  blush'd,  or  on  spring-flowered 

lea 

Spread  a  green  kirtle  to  the  minstrelsy: 
A  virgin  purest  lipp'd,  yet  in  the  lore 
Of  love  deep  learned  to  the  red  heart's 
core:  190 

Not  one  hour  old,  yet  of  sciential  brain 
To  unperplex    bliss    from    its    neighbour 

pain; 

Define  their  pettish  limits,  and  estrange 
Their  points  of  contact,  and  swift  counter- 
change  ; 

Intrigue  with  the  specious  chaos,  and  dis- 
part 

Its  most  ambiguous  atoms  with  sure  art; 
As  though  in  Cupid's  college  she  had  spent 


Sweet  days  a  lovely  graduate,  still  unshent, 
And  kept  his  rosy  terms  in  idle  languish- 
ment 

Why  this  fair  creature  chose  so  fairily 
By  the  wayside  to  linger,  we  shall  see;   201 
But  first  't  is  fit  to  tell  how  she  could  muse 
And  dream,  when  in  the  serpent  prison- 
house, 

Of  all  she  list,  strange  or  magnificent: 
How,   ever,  where  she   will'd,   her  spirit 

went; 

Whether  to  faint  Elysium,  or  where 
Down  through  tress-lifting  waves  the  Ne- 
reids fair 
Wind  into  Thetis'  bower  by  many  a  pearly 

stair; 
Or  where  God  Bacchus  drains  his  cups 

divine, 

Stretch'd  out,  at  ease,  beneath  a  glutinous 
pine;  2io 

Or  where  in  Pluto's  gardens  palatine 
Mulciber's  columns  gleam  in  far  piazzian 

line. 

And  sometimes  into  cities  she  would  send 
Her  dream,  with  feast  and  rioting  to  blend; 
And  once,  while  among  mortals  dreaming 

thus, 

She  saw  the  young  Corinthian  Lycius 
Charioting  foremost  in  the  envious  race, 
Like  a  young  Jove   with  calm    uneager 

face, 

And  fell  into  a  swooning  love  of  him.  219, 
Now  on  the  moth-time  of  that  evening  dim 
He  would  return  that  way,  as  well  she 

knew, 
To   Corinth  from   the  shore;    for  freshly 

blew 

The  eastern  soft  wind,  and  his  galley  now 
Grated  the   quay-stones  with   her   brazen 

prow 

In  port  Cenchreas,  from  Egina  isle 
Fresh  anchor'd;  whither  he  had  been  awhile 
To  sacrifice  to  Jove,  whose  temple  there 
Waits  with  high  marble  doors  for  blood 

and  incense  rare. 

Jove  heard  his  vows,  and  better'd  his  de- 
sire: 


'5° 


THE   POEMS   OF    1818-1819 


For  by  some  freakful  chance  he  made  re- 
tire 230 

From  his  companions,  and  set  forth  to 
walk, 

Perhaps  grown  wearied  of  their  Corinth 
talk: 

Over  the  solitary  hills  he  fared, 

Thoughtless  at  first,  but  ere  eve's  star  ap- 
pear'd 

His  phantasy  was  lost,  where  reason  fades, 

In  the  calm'd  twilight  of  Platonic  shades. 

Lamia  beheld  him  coining,  near,  more 
near  — 

Close  to  her  passing,  in  indifference  drear, 

His  silent  sandals  swept  the  mossy  green; 

So  neighbour'd  to  him,  and  yet  so  unseen  240 

She  stood:  he  pass'd,  shut  up  in  mysteries, 

His  mind  wrapp'd  like  his  mantle,  while 
her  eyes 

Follow'd  his  steps,  and  her  neck  regal 
white 

Turn'd  —  syllabling  thus,  *  Ah,  Lycius 
bright! 

And  will  you  leave  me  on  the  hills  alone  ? 

Lycius,  look  back!  and  be  some  pity  shown.' 

He  did;  not  with  cold  wonder  fearingly, 

But  Orpheus-like  at  an  Eurydice; 

For  so  delicious  were  the  words  she  sung, 

It  seem'd  he  had  loved  them  a  whole  sum- 
mer long:  250 

And  soon  his  eyes  had  drunk  her  beauty 
up, 

Leaving  no  drop  in  the  bewildering  cup, 

And  still  the  cup  was  full,  —  while  he, 
afraid 

Lest  she  should  vanish  ere  his  lips  had  paid 

Due  adoration,  thus  began  to  adore; 

Her  soft  look  growing  coy,  she  saw  his 
chain  so  sure: 

*  Leave  thee  alone!     Look  back!     Ah,  God- 


Whether  my  eyes  can  ever  turn  from  thee  ! 
For  pity  do  not  this  sad  heart  belie  — 
Even  as  thou  vanishest  so  I  shall  die.      260 
Stay  !  though  a  Naiad  of  the  rivers,  stay  ! 
To  thy  far  wishes  will  thy  streams  obey: 
Stay  !  though  the  greenest  woods  be  thy 
domain, 


Alone  they  can  drink  up  the  morning  rain: 
Though  a  descended  Pleiad,  will  not  one 
Of  thine  harmonious  sisters  keep  in  tune 
Thy  spheres,  and  as  thy  silver  proxy  shine  ? 
So  sweetly  to  these  ravish'd  ears  of  mine 
Came   thy   sweet   greeting,    that    if    thou 

shouldst  fade, 

Thy  memory  will  waste  me  to  a  shade :  — 
For  pity   do   not   melt!'  — 'If   I   should 

stay,'  27  x 

Said  Lamia,  '  here,  upon  this  floor  of  clay, 
And  pain  my  steps  upon  these  flowers  too 

rough, 

What  canst  thou  say  or  do  of  charm  enough 
To  dull  the  nice  remembrance  of  my  home  ? 
Thou  canst  not  ask  me  with  thee  here  to 

roam 
Over  these  hills  and  vales,  where  no  joy 

is,— 

Empty  of  immortality  and  bliss  ! 
Thou  art  a  scholar,  Lycius,  and  must  know 
That  finer  spirits  cannot  breathe  below    280 
In   human   climes,  and   live:   Alas!   poor 

youth, 

What  taste  of  purer  air  hast  thou  to  soothe 
My  essence  ?     What  serener  palaces, 
Where  I  may  all  my  many  senses  please, 
And  by  mysterious  sleights  a  hundred  thirsts 

appease  ? 

It  cannot  be  —  Adieu  ! '  So  said,  she  rose 
Tiptoe  with  white  arms  spread.  He,  sick 

to  lose 

The  amorous  promise  of  her  lone  complain, 
Swoon'd  murmuring  of  love,  and  pale  with 

pain. 

The  cruel  lady,  without  any  show  290 

Of  sorrow  for  her  tender  favourite's  woe, 
But  rather,  if  her  eyes  could  brighter  be, 
With  brighter  eyes  and  slow  amenity, 
Put  her  new  lips  to  his,  and  gave  afresh 
The  life  she  had  so  tangled  in  her  mesh: 
And  as  he  from  one  trance  was  wakening 
Into  another,  she  began  to  sing, 
Happy  in  beauty,  life,  and  love,  and  every 

thing, 

A  song  of  love,  too  sweet  for  earthly  lyres, 
While,  like  held  breath,  the  stars  drew  in 

their  panting  fires.  300 


LAMIA 


And  then  she  whisper'd  in  such  trembling 

tone, 

As  those  who,  safe  together  met  alone 
For  the  first  time  through  many  anguish'd 

days, 
Use  other  speech  than  looks;  bidding  him 

raise 
His  drooping  head,  and  clear  his  soul  of 

doubt, 

For  that  she  was  a  woman,  and  without 
Any  more  subtle  fluid  in  her  veins 
Than  throbbing  blood,  and  that  the  self- 
same pains 

Inhabited  her  frail-strung  heart  as  his. 
And  next  she  wonder'd  how  his  eyes  could 

miss  310 

Her  face  so  long  in  Corinth,  where,  she 

said, 
She  dwelt  but  half  retired,  and  there  had 

led 

Days  happy  as  the  gold  coin  could  invent 
Without  the  aid  of  love ;  yet  in  content 
Till  she  saw  him,  as  once  she  pass'd  him  by, 
Where  'gainst  a  column  he  leant  thought- 
fully 
At   Venus'   temple    porch,    'mid    baskets 

heap'd 

Of  amorous  herbs  and  flowers,  newly  reap'd 
Late  on  that  eve,  as  't  was  the  night  before 
The  Adonian  feast;  whereof  she  saw  no 

more,  320 

But  wept  alone  those  days,  for  why  should 

she  adore  ? 

Lycius  from  death  awoke  into  amaze, 
To  see  her  still,  and  singing  so  sweet  lays; 
Then  from  amaze  into  delight  he  fell 
To  hear  her  whisper  woman's  lore  so  well; 
And  every  word  she  spake  enticed  him  on 
To  unperplex'd  delight  and  pleasure  known. 
Let  the  mad  poets  say  whate'er  they  please 
Of  the  sweets  of  Fairies,  Peris,  Goddesses, 
There   is   not   such   a   treat   among  them 

all,  33o 

Haunters  of  cavern,  lake,  and  waterfall, 
As  a  real  woman,  lineal  indeed 
From  Pyrrha's  pebbles  or  old  Adam's  seed. 
Thus    gentle    Lamia  judged,  and  judged 

aright, 


That  Lycius  could  not  love  in  half  a  fright, 
So  threw  the  goddess  off,  and  won  his  heart 
More  pleasantly  by  playing  woman's  part, 
With  no  more  awe  than  what  her  beauty 

gave, 
That,  while  it  smote,  still  guaranteed  to 

save. 

Lycius  to  all  made  eloquent  reply,  340 

Marrying  to  every  word  a  twin-born  sigh: 
And  last,  pointing  to  Corinth,  ask'd  her 

sweet, 
If  't  was  too  far  that  night  for  her  soft 

feet. 

The  way  was  short,  for  Lamia's  eagerness 
Made,  by  a  spell,  the  triple  league  decrease 
To  a  few  paces ;  not  at  all  surmised 
By  blinded  Lycius,  so  in  her  comprised: 
They  pass'd  the  city  gates,  he  knew  not  how, 
So  noiseless,  and  he  never  thought  to  know. 

As  men  talk  in  a  dream,  so  Corinth  all,  350 
Throughout  her  palaces  imperial, 
And  all  her  populous  streets  and  temples 

lewd, 
Mutter'd,   like    tempest    in   the    distance 

brew'd, 
To   the   wide-spreaded    night   above    her 

towers. 
Men,  women,  rich  and  poor,  in  the  cool 

hours, 
Shuffled  their  sandals  o'er  the  pavement 

white, 

Companion'd  or  alone ;  while  many  a  light 
Flared,  here  and  there,  from  wealthy  festi- 
vals, 
And  threw  their  moving  shadows  on   the 

walls, 
Or  found  them  cluster'd  in  the  corniced 

shade  360 

Of  some    arch'd  temple   door,   or  dusky 

colonnade. 

Muffling  his  face,  of  greeting  friends  in 

fear, 
Her  fingers  he  press'd  hard,  as  one  came 

near 
With  curl'd  gray  beard,  sharp  eyes,  and 

smooth  bald  crown, 


THE   POEMS   OF   1818-1819 


Slow-stepp'd,    and    robed    in    philosophic 

gown: 
Lycius    shrank    closer,   as   they  met   and 

past, 

Into  his  mantle,  adding  wings  to  haste, 
While  hurried  Lamia  trembled:  'Ah,'  said 

he, 

*  Why  do  you  shudder,  love,  so  ruefully  ? 
Why  does   your  tender  palm   dissolve  in 

dew?' —  370 

'I'm  wearied,'  said  fair  Lamia:  'tell  me 

who 

Is  that  old  man  ?     I  cannot  bring  to  mind 
His  features:  —  Lycius  !  wherefore  did  you 

blind 
Yourself  from  his  quick   eyes  ? '     Lycius 

replied, 

'  'T  is  Apollonius  sage,  my  trusty  guide 
And  good  instructor;  but  to-night  he  seems 
The    ghost  of  folly   haunting    my   sweet 

dreams.' 

While  yet  he  spake  they  had  arrived 

before 

A  pillar'd  porch,  with  lofty  portal  door, 
Where  hung  a  silver  lamp,  whose  phosphor 

glow  380 

Reflected  in  the  slabbed  steps  below, 
Mild  as  a  star  in  water;  for  so  new 
And  so  unsullied  was  the  marble  hue, 
So  through  the  crystal  polish,  liquid  fine, 
Ran   the   dark  veins,  that   none   but  feet 

divine 
Could  e'er  have  touch'd  there.      Sounds 

JEolian 
Breathed  from  the   hinges,  as  the  ample 

span 

Of  the  wide  doors  disclosed  a  place  un- 
known ' 

Some  time  to  any,  but  those  two  alone, 
And  a  few  Persian  mutes,  who  that  same 

year  39° 

Were  seen  about  the  markets:  none  knew 

where 

They  could  inhabit;  the  most  curious 
Were  foil'd,  who  watch' d  to  trace  them  to 

their  house: 
And  but  the  flitter-winged  verse  must  tell, 


For  truth's  sake,  what  woe  afterwards 
befell, 

'T  would  humour  many  a  heart  to  leave 
them  thus, 

Shut  from  the  busy  world  of  more  incredu- 
lous. 

PART    II 

LOVE  in  a  hut,  with  water  and  a  crust, 

Is  —  Love,   forgive  us  !  —  cinders,   ashes, 

dust; 

Love  in  a  palace  is  perhaps  at  last 
More   grievous   torment   than   a    hermit's 

fast: — 

That  is  a  doubtful  tale  from  faery  land, 
Hard  for  the  non-elect  to  understand. 
Had  Lycius  lived  to  hand  his  story  down, 
He  might  have  given  the  moral  a  fresh 

frown, 
Or  clench'd   it  quite:    but  too  short  was 

their  bliss 
To  breed  distrust  and  hate,  that  make  the 

soft  voice  hiss.  10 

Besides,  there,  nightly,  with  terrific  glare, 
Love,  jealous  grown  of  so  complete  a  pair, 
Hover'd  and  buzz'd  his  wings,  with  fearful 

roar, 

Above  the  lintel  of  their  chamber  door, 
And  down  the  passage  cast  a  glow  upon 

the  floor. 

For  all  this  came  a  ruin:  side  by  side 
They  were  enthroned,  in  the  even  tide, 
Upon  a  couch,  near  to  a  curtaining 
Whose  airy  texture,  from  a  golden  string, 
Floated  into  the  room,  and  let  appear        20 
Unveil'd  the   summer    heaven,   blue    and 

clear, 
Betwixt  two  marble   shafts:  —  there  they 

reposed, 
Where  use  had  made  it  sweet,  with  eyelids 

closed, 

Saving  a  tithe  which  love  still  open  kept, 
That  they  might  see  each  other  while  they 

almost  slept; 
When  from  the   slope   side  of  a  suburb 

hill, 


LAMIA 


Deafening  the   swallow's   twitter,  came   a 

thrill 
Of  trumpets  —  Lycius  started  —  the  sounds 

fled, 

But  left  a  thought,  a  buzzing  in  his  head. 
For  the  first  time,  since  first  he  harbour'd 

in  30 

That  purple-lined  palace  of  sweet  sin, 
His  spirit  pass'd  beyond  its  golden  bourn 
Into  the  noisy  world  almost  forsworn. 
The  lady,  ever  watchful,  penetraut, 
Saw  this  with  pain,  so  arguing  a  want 
Of  something  more,  more  than  her  empery 
Of  joys;  and  she  began  to  moan  and  sigh 
Because  he  mused  beyond  her,  knowing  well 
That  but  a  moment's  thought  is  passion's 

passing  bell. 
'  Why  do  you  sigh,  fair  creature  ? '  whis- 

per'd  he :  4o 

'  Why  do  you  think  ? '  return'd  she  ten- 
derly: 
'  You  have   deserted  me ;  —  where  am   I 

now  ? 
Not  in  your  heart  while  care  weighs  on 

your  brow: 

No,  no,  you  have  dismiss'd  me;  and  I  go 
From  your  breast  houseless:  aye,  it  must  be 

so.' 

He  answer'd,  bending  to  her  open  eyes, 
Where  he  was  mirror'd  small  in  paradise, 
'  My  silver  planet,  both  of  eve  and  morn  ! 
Why  will  you  plead  yourself  so  sad  forlorn, 
While  I  am  striving  how  to  fill  my  heart  50 
With  deeper  crimson,  and  a  double  smart  ? 
How  to  entangle,  trammel  up  and  snare 
;  Your   soul    in    mine,   and    labyrinth    you 

there, 

Like  the  hid  scent  in  an  unbudded  rose  ? 
Aye,  a  sweet  kiss  —  you  see  your  mighty 

woes. 

My  thoughts  !  shall  I  unveil  them  ?     Lis- 
ten then  ! 

What  mortal  hath  a  prize,  that  other  men 
May  be  confounded  and  abash'd  withal, 
But  lets  it  sometimes  pace  abroad  majes- 

tical, 

And  triumph,  as  in  thee  I  should  rejoice  60 
Amid  the  hoarse  alarm  of  Corinth's  voice. 


Let  my  foes  choke,  and  my  friends  shout 

afar, 
While  through  the  thronged  streets  your 

bridal  car 
Wheels  round  its  dazzling  spokes.'  —  The 

lady's  cheek 
Trembled;  she  nothing  said,  but,  pale  and 

meek, 

Arose  and  knelt  before  him,  wept  a  rain 
Of    sorrows   at  his   words ;   at  last   with 

pain 
Beseeching  him,  the   while  his  hand  she 

wrung, 
To  change  his  purpose.     He  thereat  was 

stung, 

Perverse,  with  stronger  fancy  to  reclaim   7o 
Her  wild  and  timid  nature  to  his  aim; 
Besides,  for  all  his  love,  in  self  despite, 
Against  his  better  self,  he  took  delight 
Luxurious  in  her  sorrows,  soft  and  new. 
His  passion,  cruel  grown,  took  on  a  hue 
Fierce  and  sanguineous  as  't  was  possible 
In  one  whose  brow  had  no  dark  veins  to 

swell. 

Fine  was  the  mitigated  fury,  like 
Apollo's  presence  when  in  act  to  strike 
The   serpent  —  Ha  !   the   serpent !   certes, 

she  80 

Was    none.      She    burnt,    she   loved    the 

tyranny, 

And,  all  subdued,  consented  to  the  hour 
When  to  the  bridal  he  should  lead  his  par- 
amour. 
Whispering  in  midnight  silence,  said  the 

youth, 
'  Sure  some  sweet  name  thou  hast,  though, 

by  my  truth, 

I  have  not  ask'd  it,  ever  thinking  thee 
Not  mortal,  but  of  heavenly  progeny, 
As  still  I  do.     Hast  any  mortal  name, 
Fit  appellation  for  this  dazzling  frame  ? 
Or  friends  or  kinsfolk  on  the  citied  earth, 
To  share  our  marriage  feast  and  nuptial 

mirth?'  9i 

*  I  have  no  friends,'  said  Lamia,  '  no,  not 

one; 

My  presence  in  wide  Corinth  hardly  known: 
My  parents'  bones  are  in  their  dusty  urns 


THE   POEMS   OF   1818-1819 


Sepulchred,    where    no    kindled    incense 

burns, 
Seeing  all  their  luckless  race  are  dead, 

save  me, 

And  I  neglect  the  holy  rite  for  thee. 
Even  as  you  list  invite  your  many  guests; 
But  if,  as  now  it  seems,  your  vision  rests 
With  any  pleasure  on  me,  do  not  bid        100 
Old  Apollonius  —  from  him  keep  me  hid.' 
Lycius,  perplex'd  at  words  so  blind  and 

blank, 
Made  close  inquiry;  from  whose  touch  she 

shrank, 

Feigning  a  sleep;  and  he  to  the  dull  shade 
Of  deep  sleep  in  a  moment  was  betray'd. 

It  was  the  custom  then  to  bring  away 
The  bride  from  home  at  blushing  shut  of 

day, 

Veil'd,  in  a  chariot,  heralded  along 
By  strewn  flowers,  torches,  and  a  marriage 

song, 

With   other   pageants:    but   this   fair  un- 
known 1 10 

Had  not  a  friend.     So  being  left  alone, 
(Lycius  was  gone  to  summon  all  his  kin,) 
And  knowing  surely  she  could  never  win 
His  foolish  heart  from  its  mad  pompous- 
ness, 
She   set   herself,   high-thoughted,   how   to 

dress 

The  misery  in  fit  magnificence. 
She   did   so,    but   'tis   doubtful   how   and 

whence 

Came,  and  who  were  her  subtle  servitors. 
About  the  halls,  and  to  and  from  the  doors, 
There  was  a  noise  of  wings,  till  in  short 
space  120 

The   glowing   banquet -room    shone   with 

wide-arched  grace. 

A  haunting  music,  sole  perhaps  and  lone 
Supportress  of  the  faery-roof,  made  moan 
Throughout,  as   fearful   the  whole  charm 

might  fade. 

Fresh  carved  cedar,  mimicking  a  glade 
Of  palm  and  plantain,  met  from  either  side, 
High  in  the  midst,  in  honour  of  the  bride: 
Two  palms  and  then  two  plantains,  and  so  on, 


From  either  side  their  stems  branch'd  one 

to  one 

All  down  the  aisled  place;  and  beneath  all 
There  ran  a  stream  of  lamps  straight  on 

from  wall  to  wall.  13 1 

So  canopied,  lay  an  untasted  feast 
Teeming  with  odours.     Lamia,  regal  drest, 
Silently  paced  about,  and  as  she  went, 
In  pale  contented  sort  of  discontent, 
Mission'd  her  viewless  servants  to  enrich 
The  fretted  splendour  of  each  nook  and 

niche. 
Between  the  tree-stems,  marbled  plain  at 

first, 

Came  jasper  panels ;  then,  anon,  there  burst 
Forth  creeping  imagery  of  slighter  trees,  140 
And  with  the  larger  wove  in  small  intrica- 
cies. 

Approving  all,  she  faded  at  self-will, 
And  shut   the   chamber  up,  close,  hush'd 

and  still, 

Complete  and  ready  for  the  revels  rude, 
When  dreadful  guests  would  come  to  spoil 

her  solitude. 

The  day  appear'd,  and  all  the  gossip 
rout. 

O  senseless  Lycius  !  Madman  !  wherefore 
flout 

The  silent-blessing  fate,  warm  cloister'd 
hours, 

And  show  to  common  eyes  these  secret 
bowers  ? 

The  herd  approach'd;  each  guest,  with  busy 
brain,  150 

Arriving  at  the  portal,  gazed  amain, 

And  enter'd  marvelling:  for  they  knew  the 
street, 

Remember'd  it  from  childhood  all  complete 

Without  a  gap,  yet  ne'er  before  had  seen 

That  royal  porch,  that  high-built  fair  de- 
mesne ; 

So  in  they  hurried  all,  mazed,  curious  and 
keen: 

Save  one,  who  look'd  thereon  with  eye  se- 
vere, 

And  with  calm-planted  steps  walk'd  in  aus- 
tere: 


LAMIA 


'55 


'T  was    Apollonius:     something     too     he 

laugh'd, 
As  though  some  knotty  problem,  that  had 

daft  160 

His  patient  thought,  had  now  begun  to 

thaw, 
And  solve  and  melt:  —  'twas  just  as  he 

foresaw. 

He  met  within  the  murmurous  vestibule 
His  young  disciple.   *  'T  is  no  common  rule, 
Lycius,'  said  he,  'for  uninvited  guest 
To  force  himself  upon  you,  and  infest 
With  an  unbidden    presence    the    bright 

throng 
Of   younger   friends;  yet  must  I  do  this 

wrong, 
And  you  forgive  me.'     Lycius  blush'd,  and 

led 

The  old  man  through  the  inner  doors  broad- 
spread;  170 
With  reconciling  words  and  courteous  mien 
Turning    into    sweet    milk    the    sophist's 
spleen. 

Of  wealthy  lustre  was  the  banquet-room, 
FilFd  with  pervading  brilliance  and  per- 
fume: 

Before  each  lucid  panel  fuming  stood 
A  censer  fed  with  myrrh  and  spiced  wood, 
Each  by  a  sacred  tripod  held  aloft, 
Whose  slender  feet  wide-swerved  upon  the 

soft 
Wool- woof ed   carpets:    fifty  wreaths   of 

smoke 

From  fifty  censers  their  light  voyage  took 
To  the  high  roof,  still  mimick'd  as  they 

rose  181 

Along  the    mirror'd  walls  by  twin-clouds 

odorous. 
Twelve   sphered   tables,  by  silk  seats  in- 

spher'd, 

High  as  the  level  of  a  man's  breast  rear'd 
On  libbard's  paws,  upheld  the  heavy  gold 
Of  cups  and  goblets,  and  the  store  thrice  told 
Of  Ceres'  horn,  and,  in  huge  vessels,  wine 
Came   from   the  gloomy  tun  with   merry 

shine. 


Thus  loaded  with  a  feast  the  tables  stood, 
Each  shrining  in  the  midst  the  image  of  a 

God.  190 

When  in  an  antechamber  every  guest 
Had  felt  the  cold  full  sponge  to  pleasure 

press'd, 
By  ministering  slaves,  upon  his  hands  and 

feet, 

And  fragrant  oils  with  ceremony  meet 
Pour'd  on  his  hair,  they  all  moved  to  the 

feast 
In  white  robes,  and  themselves  in  order 

placed 

Around  the  silken  couches,  wondering 
Whence  all  this  mighty  cost  and  blaze  of 

wealth  could  spring. 

Soft  went  the  music  the  soft  air  along, 
While  fluent  Greek  a  vowel'd  under-song 
Kept  up  among  the  guests,  discoursing 

lOW  201 

At  first,  for  scarcely  was  the  wine  at  flow; 
But  when  the  happy  vintage  touch'd  their 

brains, 
Louder  they  talk,   and  louder  come  the 

strains 
Of  powerful  instruments:  —  the  gorgeous 

dyes, 

The  space,  the  splendour  of  the  draperies, 
The  roof  of  awful  richness,  nectarous  cheer, 
Beautiful  slaves,  and  Lamia's  self,  appear, 
Now,  when  the  wine  has  done  its  rosy 

deed, 
And    every   soul   from    human   trammels 

freed,  2 10 

No  more  so  strange;  for  merry  wine,  sweet 

wine, 
Will  make  Elysian  shades  not  too  fair,  too 

divine. 

Soon  was  God  Bacchus  at  meridian  height; 
Flush'd  were  their  cheeks,  and  bright  eyes 

double  bright: 

Garlands  of  every  green,  and  every  scent 
From  vales    deflower'd,   or    forest  -  trees 

branch-rent, 
In  baskets  of    bright  osier'd  gold   were 

brought 


THE   POEMS   OF   1818-1819 


High  as  the   handles    heap'd,   to  suit  the 

thought 

Of  every  guest:  that  each,  as  he  did  please, 
Might  fancy-fit  his  brows,  silk-pillow'd  at 

his  ease.  220 

What  wreath  for  Lamia  ?   What  for  Ly- 

cius? 

What  for  the  sage,  old  Apollonius  ? 
Upon  her  aching  forehead  be  there  hung 
The  leaves  of  willow  and  of  adder's  tongue; 
And  for  the  youth,  quick,  let  us  strip  for 

him 
The  thyrsus,  that  his  watching  eyes  may 

swim 

Into  forgetfulness;  and,  for  the  sage, 
Let   spear-grass   and   the   spiteful   thistle 

wage 

War  on  his  temples.  Do  not  all  charms  fly 
At  the  mere  touch  of  cold  philosophy  ?  230 
There  was  an  awful  rainbow  once  in 

heaven: 
We  know  her  woof,   her  texture;   she  is 

given 

In  the  dull  catalogue  of  common  things. 
Philosophy  will  clip  an  Angel's  wings, 
Conquer  all  mysteries  by  rule  and  line, 
Empty  the  haunted  air,  and  gnomed  mine  — 
Unweave  a  rainbow,  as  it  erewhile  made 
The  tender-person'd  Lamia  melt   into  a 

shade. 


By  her  glad  Lycius  sitting,  in  chief  place, 
Scarce  saw  in  all  the  room  another  face,  240 
Till,  checking  his  love  trance,  a  cup  he 

took 
Full  brimm'd,  and  opposite  sent  forth  a 

look 

'Cross  the  broad  table,  to  beseech  a  glance 
From   his   old  teacher's  wrinkled  counte- 
nance, 

And  pledge  him.     The  bald-head  philoso- 
pher 
Had  fix'd  his  eye,  without   a  twinkle  or 

stir, 

Full  on  the  alarmed  beauty  of  the  bride, 
Brow-beating  her  fair  form,  and  troubling 
her  sweet  pride. 


Lycius  then  press'd  her  hand,  with  devout 

touch, 

As  pale  it  lay  upon  the  rosy  couch:  250 

'T  was  icy,  and  the  cold  ran  through  his 

veins; 

Then  sudden  it  grew  hot,  and  all  the  pains 
Of  an  unnatural  heat  shot  to  his  heart. 
'  Lamia,  what  means  this  ?  Wherefore  dost 

thou  start  ? 
Know'st  thou  that  man  ? '   Poor  Lamia  an^ 

swer'd  not. 

He  gazed  into  her  eyes,  and  not  a  jot 
Own'dthey  the  lovelorn  piteous  appeal: 
More,    more  he  gazed:  his  human  senses 

reel: 

Some  hungry  spell  that  loveliness  absorbs: 
There  was  no  recognition  in  those  orbs.  260 
'  Lamia  ! '  he  cried  —  and  no  soft-toned 

reply. 

The  many  heard,  and  the  loud  revelry 
Grew  hush:    the  stately  music   no   more 

breathes; 

The  myrtle  sicken'd  in  a  thousand  wreaths. 
By  faint  degrees,  voice,  lute,  and  pleasure 

ceased; 

A  deadly  silence  step  by  step  increased, 
Until  it  seem'd  a  horrid  presence  there, 
And  not  a  man  but  felt  the  terror  in  his 

hair. 
'  Lamia!'  he   shriek'd;    and   nothing-  but 

the  shriek 

With  its  sad  echo  did  the  silence  break.  270 
'  Begone,  foul  dream  ! '  he  cried,  gazing 

again 
In  the  bride's  face,  where   now  no-  azure 

vein 
Wander'd  on  fair-spaced  temples;  no  soft 

bloom 

Misted  the  cheek;  no  passion  to  illume 
The  deep-recessed  vision: — all  was  blight; 
Lamia,  no  longer  fair,  there  sat  a  deadly 

white. 

*  Shut,  shut  those  juggling  eyes,  thou  ruth- 
less man  ! 
Turn  them  aside,  wretch  !  or  the  righteous 

ban 

Of  all  the  Gods,  whose  dreadful  images 
Here  represent  their  shadowy  presences, 


LAMIA 


157 


May  pierce  them  on  the  sudden  with  the 
thorn  281 

Of  painful  blindness  ;  leaving  thee  for- 
lorn, 

In  trembling  dotage  to  the  feeblest  fright 

Of  conscience,  for  their  long -offended 
might, 

For  all  thine  impious  proud-heart  sophis- 
tries, 

Unlawful  magic,  and  enticing  lies. 

Corinthians  !  look  upon  that  gray-beard 
wretch  ! 

Mark  how,  possess'd,  his  lashless  eyelids 
stretch 

Around  his  demon  eyes  !  Corinthians,  see  ! 

My  sweet  bride  withers  at  their  potency.'  290 

*  Fool ! '  said  the  sophist,  in  an  under-toue 

Gruff  with  contempt;  which  a  death-nigh- 
ing  moan 

From  Lycius  answer'd,  as  heart-struck  and 
lost, 

He  sank  supine  beside  the  aching  ghost. 

'  Fool !  Fool ! '  repeated  he,  while  his  eyes 
still 


Relented  not,  nor  moved ;  « from  every  ill 
Of  life  have  I  preserved  thee  to  this  day, 
And  shall  I  see  thee  made  a  serpent's 

prey?' 
Then  Lamia  breathed  death  breath;    the 

sophist's  eye, 

Like  a  sharp  spear,  went  through  her  ut- 
terly, 3oo 
Keen,  cruel,  perceant,  stinging:    she,  as 

well 

As  her  weak  hand  could  any  meaning  tell, 
Motion'd  him  to  be  silent;  vainly  so, 
He  look'd  and  look'd  again  a  level  —  No  ! 
'  A  serpent ! '  echoed  he ;  no  sooner  said, 
Than  with  a  frightful  scream  she  vanished: 
And  Lycius'  arms  were  empty  of  delight, 
As  were  his  limbs  of  life,  from  that  same 

night. 
On  the  high  couch  he  lay  !  —  his  friends 

came  round  — 
Supported  him  —  no  pulse  or  breath  they 

found,  3io 

And,  in  its  marriage  robe,  the  heavy  body 

wound. 


DRAMAS 


OTHO  THE   GREAT 

A   TRAGEDY  IN  FIVE  ACTS 

When  Keats  went  to  the  Isle  of  Wight  in 
the  early  summer  of  1819,  it  was  with  the  de- 
termination to  make  his  literary  powers  yield 
him  a  support,  and  the  theatre,  which  he  knew 
•well,  offered  the  surest  means,  in  his  judg- 
ment, for  an  immediate  return.  There  was, 
indeed,  something  of  a  literary  revival  of  the 
drama  at  this  time,  and  Keats  had  often  dis- 
cussed with  his  friends  the  merits  of  plays  then 
before  the  public,  and  especially  the  character 
of  Kean's  acting.  They  were  rather  skeptical 
of  Keats's  ability  to  produce  a  successful  play, 
and  their  doubts  had  some  good  basis,  if  we 
may  judge  from  the  account  which  Charles 
Armitage  Brown  gives  of  Keats's  mode  of  com- 
position. Lord  Houghton  quotes  the  following 
from  a  manuscript  by  Brown,  who  was  Keats's 
companion  at  Shanklin :  *  At  Shanklin  he  un- 
dertook a  difficult  task :  I  engaged  to  furnish 
him  with  the  title,  characters  and  dramatic 
conduct  of  a  tragedy,  and  he  was  to  enwrap  it 
in  poetry.  The  progress  of  this  work  was  curi- 
ous, for  while  I  sat  opposite  to  him,  he  caught 
my  description  of  each  scene  entire,  with  the 
characters  to  be  brought  forward,  the  events, 
and  everything  connected  with  it.  Thus  he 
went  on,  scene  after  scene,  never  knowing  nor 
enquiring  into  the  scene  which  was  to  follow, 
until  four  acts  were  completed.  It  was  then 
he  required  to  know  at  once  all  the  events  that 
were  to  occupy  the  fifth  act ;  I  explained  them 
to  him,  but,  after  a  patient  hearing  and  some 
thought,  he  insisted  that  many  incidents  in  it 
were  too  humorous,  or,  as  he  termed  them,  too 
melodramatic.  He  wrote  the  fifth  act  in  ac- 
cordance with  his  own  views,  and  so  contented 
was  I  with  his  poetry  that  at  the  time,  and  for  a 
long  time  after,  I  thought  he  was  in  the  right.' 

Keats  himself  says  little  of  the  tragedy,  ex- 
eept  as  a  piece  of  work  solely  designed  for  pro- 


158 


fit.  '  Brown  and  I,'  he  writes  to  John  Taylor, 
his  publisher,  '  have  together  been  engaged 
(this  I  should  wish  to  remain  secret)  on  a  Tra- 
gedy which  I  have  just  finished  and  from 
which  we  hope  to  share  moderate  profits.  .  .  . 
I  feel  every  confidence  that,  if  I  choose,  I  may 
be  a  popular  writer.  That  I  will  never  be ; 
but  for  all  that  I  will  get  a  livelihood.'  He 
wrote  shortly  after  to  the  same  friend :  *  Brown 
likes  the  tragedy  very  much.  But  he  is  not  a 
fit  judge  of  it,  as  I  have  only  acted  as  midwife 
to  his  plot ;  and  of  course  he  will  be  fond  of 
his  child.'  The  money  to  be  got  from  the 
tragedy  was  uppermost  in  his  mind  when  he 
wrote  to  his  brother  George,  who  shared  his 
pecuniary  difficulties :  '  We  are  certainly  in  a 
very  low  estate  —  I  say  we,  for  I  am  in  such  a 
situation,  that  were  it  not  for  the  assistance  of 
Brown  and  Taylor,  I  must  be  as  badly  off  as  a 
man  can  be.  I  could  not  raise  any  sum  by  the 
promise  of  any  poem,  no,  not  by  the  mortgage 
of  my  intellect.  We  must  wait  a  little  while. 
I  really  have  hopes  of  success.  I  have  finished 
a  tragedy,  which  if  it  succeeds  will  enable  me 
to  sell  what  I  may  have  in  manuscript  to  a 
good  advantage.  I  have  passed  my  time  in 
reading,  writing,  and  fretting  —  the  last  I  in- 
tend to  give  up,  and  stick  to  the  other  two. 
They  are  the  only  chances  of  benefit  to  us.  ... 
Take  matters  as  coolly  as  you  can ;  and  confi- 
dently expecting  help  from  England,  act  as  if 
no  help  were  nigh.  Mine,  I  am  sure,  is  a  tol- 
erable tragedy ;  it  would  have  been  a  bank  to 
me,  if  just  as  I  had  finished  it,  I  had  not  heard 
of  Kean's  resolution  to  go  to  America.  That 
was  the  worst  news  I  could  have  had.  There 
is  no  actor  can  do  the  principal  character  be- 
sides Kean.  At  Covent  Garden  there  is  a  great 
chance  of  its  being  damn'd.  Were  it  to  suc- 
ceed even  there  it  would  lift  me  out  of  the 
mire ;  I  mean  the  mire  of  a  bad  reputation 
which  is  continually  rising  against  me.  My 
name  with  the  literary  fashionables  is  vulgar. 
I  am  a  weaver-boy  to  them.  A  tragedy  would 


SCENE  I 


OTHO   THE  GREAT 


lift  me  out  of  this  mess,  and  mess  it  is  as  far 
as  regards  our  pockets.' 

Keats  continued  to  pin  his  faith  on  Kean. 
'  The  report  seems  now,'  he  writes  to  the  same, 
September  27,  '  more  in  favour  of  Kean's  stop- 
ping in  England.  If  he  should  I  have  confi- 
dent hopes  of  our  tragedy.  If  he  invokes  the 
hot-blooded  character  of  Ludolph,  —  and  he  is 
the  only  actor  that  can  do  it,  —  he  will  add  to 


his  own  fame  and  improve  my  fortune.'  Keats 
waited  with  slowly  ebbing  hopes.  Elliston 
read  it,  but  wished  to  put  it  off  till  another 
season.  '  Perhaps,'  Keats  writes  in  December, 
'  we  may  give  it  another  furbish,  and  try  it  at 
Covent  Garden.  'T  would  do  one's  heart  good 
to  see  Macready  in  Ludolph.'  But  the  play 
never  was  acted  at  either  Drury  Lane  or  Co- 
vent  Garden. 


OTHO   THE   GREAT 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS 
OTHO  THE  GREAT,  Emperor  of  Germany. 
LUDOLPH,  his  Son. 
CONRAD,  Duke  of  Franconia. 
ALBERT,  a  Knight,  favoured  by  Otho. 
SIGIPRED,  an  Officer,  friend  of  Ludolph. 
THEODORE,  J 

GONFRED,     ) 

ETHELBERT,  an  Abbot. 
GERSA,  Prince  of  Hungary. 
An  Hungarian  Captain. 
Physician. 
Page. 

Nobles,  Knights,  Attendants,  and  Soldiers. 
EBMINIA,  Niece  of  Otho. 
AURANTHE,  Conrad's  Sister. 
Ladies  and  Attendants. 

SCENE.  —  The  Castle  of  Friedburg,  Us  vicinity,  and 

the  Hungarian  Camp. 

TIME.  —  One  Day. 


ACT    I 
SCENE  I.  —  An  Apartment  in  the  Castle 

Enter  CONRAD. 
Conrad.  So,  I  am  safe   emerged   from 

these  broils ! 

Amid  the  wreck  of  thousands  I  am  whole; 
For  every  crime  I  have  a  laurel- wreath, 
For  every  lie  a  lordship.     Nor  yet  has 
My  ship  of  fortune  f urPd  her  silken  sails,  — 
Let  her  glide  on  !     This  danger'd  neck  is 

saved, 

By  dexterous  policy,  from  the  rebel's  axe; 
And  of  my  ducal  palace  not  one  stone 
Is  bruised  by  the  Hungarian  petards. 
Toil  hard,  ye  slaves,  and  from  the  miser- 
earth  10 
Bring  forth  once  more  my  bullion,  trea- 
sured deep, 


With  all  my  jewel'd   salvers,  silver  and 

gold, 
And  precious  goblets  that  make  rich  the 

wine. 

But  why  do  I  stand  babbling  to  myself  ? 
Where  is  Auranthe  ?     I  have   news  for 

her 
Shall  — 

Enter  AURANTHE. 

Auranthe.  Conrad  !  what  tidings  ?  Good, 

if  I  may  guess 

From  your  alert  eyes  and  high-lifted  brows. 
What  tidings  of  the  battle  ?    Albert?    Lu- 
dolph ?     Otho  ? 
Conrad.  You  guess  aright.     And,  sister, 

slurring  o'er 

Our  by-gone  quarrels,  I  confess  my  heart 
Is  beating  with  a  child's  anxiety,  21 

To   make    our  golden   fortune   known   to 

you. 

Auranthe.  So  serious  ? 
Conrad.          Yes,  so  serious,  that  before 
I  utter  even  the  shadow  of  a  hint 
Concerning  what  will  make  that  sin- worn 

cheek 

Blush  joyous  blood  through  every  linea- 
ment, 
You  must  make   here  a  solemn  vow  to 

me. 
Auranthe.   I  pr'ythee,   Conrad,    do    not 

overact 

The  hypocrite.     What  vow  would  you  im- 
pose? 

Conrad.  Trust  me  for  once.     That  you 
may  be  assured  3o 

'T  is  not  confiding  to  a  broken  reed, 
A  poor  court-bankrupt,  outwitted  and  lost, 


i6o 


DRAMAS 


ACT  I 


Revolve  these  facts  in  your  acutest  mood, 
In  such  a  mood  as  now  you  listen  to  me :  — 
A  few  days  since,  I  was  an  open  rebel,  — 
Against  the   Emperor,  had  suborn'd  his 

son, — 
Drawn    off    his    nobles    to  revolt,  —  and 

shown 

Contented  fools  causes  for  discontent, 
Fresh  hatched  in  my  ambition's  eagle-nest; 
So  thrived  I  as  a  rebel,  —  and,  behold  !     40 
Now  I  am  Otho's  favourite,  his  dear  friend, 
His  right  hand,  his  brave  Conrad. 

Auranthe.  I  confess 

You  have  intrigued  with  these  unsteady 

times 

To  admiration;  but  to  be  a  favourite  — 
Conrad.  I  saw  my  moment.     The  Hun- 
garians, 

Collected  silently  in  holes  and  corners, 
Appear'd,  a  sudden  host,  in  the  open  day. 
I   should  have    perish'd  in  our  empire's 

wreck, 

But,  calling  interest  loyalty,  swore  faith 
To  most  believing  Otho;  and  so  help'd     50 
His  blood-stain'd  ensigns  to  the  victory 
In  yesterday's  hard  fight,  that  it  has  turn'd 
The  edge  of  his  sharp  wrath  to  eager  kind- 
ness. 
Auranthe.  So  far  yourself.     But  what  is 

this  to  me 
More  than  that  I  am  glad?     I  gratulate 

you. 
Conrad.  Yes,  sister,  but  it  does  regard 

you  greatly, 

Nearly,  momentously,  —  aye,  painfully  ! 
Hake  me  this  vow  — 

Auranthe.      Concerning  whom  or  what  ? 

Conrad.  Albert! 

Auranthe.  I  would  inquire  somewhat  of 

him: 

You  had  a  letter  from  me  touching  him  ?  60 
No  treason  'gainst  his   head  in  deed  or 

word! 
Surely    you    spared    him    at  my  earnest 

prayer  ? 

Give  me  the  letter  —  it  should  not    ex- 
ist! 


Conrad.  At  one  pernicious  charge  of  the 

enemy, 

I,  for  a  moment- whiles,  was  prisoner  ta'en 
And  rifled,  —  stuff  !  the  horses'  hoofs  have 

minced  it ! 

Auranthe.  He  is  alive  ? 
Conrad.          He  is  !  but  here  make  oath 
To  alienate  him  from  your  scheming  brain, 
Divorce  him  from  your  solitary  thoughts, 
And  cloud  him  in  such  utter  banishment,  70 
That  when  his  person   meets   again  your 

eye, 

Your  vision  shall  quite  lose  its  memory, 
And  wander  past  him  as  through  vacancy. 
Auranthe.  I  '11  not  be  perjured. 
Conrad.  No,  nor  great,  nor  mighty; 

You  would  not  wear   a  crown,  or   rule  a 

kingdom. 
To  you  it  is  indifferent. 

Auranthe.  What  means  this  ? 

Conrad.  You  '11  not  be  perjured  !     Go  to 

Albert  then, 
That  camp-mushroom  —  dishonour  of  our 

house. 

Go,  page  his  dusty  heels  upon  a  march, 
Furbish  his  jingling  baldric  while  he  sleeps, 
And  share  his  mouldy  ration  in  a  siege.     81 
Yet  stay,  —  perhaps  a  charm  may  call  you 

back, 
And  make  the  widening  circlets  of  your 

eyes 

Sparkle  with  healthy  fevers.  —  The   Em- 
peror 
Hath  given  consent  that  you  should  marry 

Ludolph ! 
Auranthe.   Can  it  be,   brother?     For   a 

golden  crown 
With  a  queen's  awful  lips  I  doubly  thank 

you  ! 

This  is  to  wake  in  Paradise  !     Farewell 
Thou  clod  of  yesterday  —  'twas  not  my- 
self! 

Not  till  this  moment  did  I  ever  feel          90 
My  spirit's  faculties  !     I  '11  flatter  you 
For  this,  and  be  you  ever  proud  of  it; 
Thou,  Jove-like,  struck'dst  thy  forehead, 
And  from  the  teeming  marrow  of  thy  brain 


SCENE  I 


OTHO   THE  GREAT 


161 


I    spring     complete     Minerva !     but    the 

prince  — 
His  highness  Ludolph  —  where  is  he  ? 

Conrad.  I  know  not: 

When,  lackying  my  counsel  at  a  beck, 
The  rebel  lords,  on  bended  knees,  received 
The  Emperor's  pardon,  Ludolph  kept  aloof, 
Sole,  in  a  stiff,  fool-hardy,  sulky  pride;    100 
Yet,  for  all  this,  I  never  saw  a  father 
In  such  a  sickly  longing  for  his  son. 
We  shall  soon  see  him,  for  the  Emperor 
He  will  be  here  this  morning. 

Auranthe.  That  I  heard 

Among   the  midnight   rumours   from   the 

camp. 

Conrad.  You  give  up  Albert  to  me  ? 
Auranthe.  Harm  him  not ! 

E'en  for   his  highness   Ludolph's   sceptry 

hand, 

I  would  not  Albert  suffer  any  wrong. 
Conrad.  Have  I  not  laboured,  plotted  —  ? 
Auranthe.  See  you  spare  him: 

Nor  be  pathetic,  my  kind  benefactor  !      no 
On  all  the  many  bounties  of  your  hand,  — 
'T  was  for  yourself  you  laboured  —  not  for 

me  ! 
Do  you  not  count,  when  I  am  queen,  to 

take 

Advantage  of  your  chance  discoveries 
Of  my  poor  secrets,  and  so  hold  a  rod 
Over  my  life  ? 

Conrad.   Let   not   this   slave  —  this  vil- 
lain— 
Be  cause  of  feud  between  us.     See  !    he 

comes  ! 
Look,  woman,  look,  your  Albert  is  quite 

safe! 
In  haste  it  seems.     Now  shall  I  be  in  the 

way, 

And  wish'd  with  silent  curses  in  my  grave, 
Or  side  by  side  with'  whelmed  mariners.   121 

Enter  ALBERT. 
Albert.    Fair   on    your   graces   fall   this 

early  morrow  ! 

So  it  is  like  to  do  without  my  prayers, 
For  your  right  noble  names,  like  favourite 
tunes, 


Have  fallen  full  frequent  from  our  Em- 
peror's lips, 
High  commented  with  smiles. 

Auranthe.  Noble  Albert ! 

Conrad  (aside).  Noble  ! 

Auranthe.  Such  salutation  argues  a  glad 

heart 
In  our  prosperity.     We  thank  you,  sir. 

Albert.  Lady  ! 

O,  would  to  Heaven  your  poor  servant 
Could   do  you  better  service  than  mere 
words !  130 

But  I  have  other  greeting  than  mine  own, 
From  no  less  man  than  Otho,  who  has  sent 
This  ring  as  pledge  of  dearest  amity; 
'T  is  chosen  I  hear  from  Hymen's  jewelry, 
And  you  will  prize  it,  lady,  I  doubt  not, 
Beyond  all  pleasures  past,  and  all  to  come. 
To  you  great  duke  — 

Conrad.          To  me  !     What  of  me,  ha  ? 

Albert.  What  pleased  your  grace  to  say  ? 

Conrad.  Your  message,  sir  ! 

Albert.  You  mean  not  this  to  me  ? 

Conrad.  Sister,  this  way; 

For  there  shall  be  no  *  gentle  Alberts '  now, 

I A  side. 

No  '  sweet  Auranthes  ! '  141 

[Exeunt  CONRAD  and  AURANTHE. 

Albert  (solus).  The  duke  is  out  of  temper; 

if  he  knows 

More  than  a  brother  of  his  sister  ought, 
I  should  not  quarrel  with  his  peevishness. 
Auranthe  —  Heaven  preserve  her  always 

fair !  — 

Is  in  the  heady,  proud,  ambitious  vein; 
I  bicker  not  with  her,  —  bid  her  farewell ! 
She  has  taken  flight  from  me,  then  let  her 


He  is  a  fool  who  stands  at  pining  gaze  ! 
But  for  poor  Ludolph,  he  is  food  for  sor- 
row: 150 
No  leveling  bluster  of  my  licensed  thoughts, 
No  military  swagger  of  my  mind, 
Can  smother  from  myself  the  wrong  I  've 

done  him,  — 

Without  design  indeed,  —  yet  it  is  so,  — 
And  opiate  for  the  conscience  have  I  none  ! 

[Exit. 


162 


DRAMAS 


ACT  I 


SCENE  II.—  The  Court-yard  of  the 
Castle 

Martial  Music.     Enter,  from  the  outer  gate, 
OTHO,  Nobles,  Knights,  and  Attendants. 
The  Soldiers  halt  at  the  gate,  with  Banners 
in  sight. 
Otho.  Where  is  my  noble  Herald  ? 

Enter  CONRAD,  from  the  Castle,  attended 
by  two  Knights  and  Servants.  ALBERT 
following. 

Well,  hast  told 

Auranthe  our  intent  imperial  ? 
Lest  our  rent  banners,  too  o'  the  sudden 

shown, 
Should  fright  her  silken  casements,  and 

dismay 

Her  household  to  our  lack  of  entertain- 
ment. 
A  victory  ! 

Conrad.      God  save  illustrious  Otho  ! 
Otho.  Aye,  Conrad,  it  will  pluck  out  all 

gray  hairs; 

It  is  the  best  physician  for  the  spleen; 
The  courtliest  inviter  to  a  feast; 
The  subtlest  excuser  of  small  faults;         10 
And  a  nice  judge  in  the  age  and  smack  of 
wine. 

Enter  from  the  Castle,  AURANTHE,  followed 
by  Pages,  holding  up  her  robes,  and  a  train 
of  Women.  She  kneels. 

Hail  my  sweet  hostess  !   I  do  thank  the 

stars, 

Or  my  good  soldiers,  or  their  ladies'  eyes, 
That,  after  such  a  merry  battle  fought, 
I  can,  all  safe  in  body  and  in  soul, 
Kiss  your  fair  hand  and  lady  fortune's  too. 
My  ring  !  now,  on  my  life,  it  doth  rejoice 
These  lips  to  feel 't  on  this  soft  ivory ! 
Keep  it,  my  brightest  daughter;  it  may 

prove 

The  little  prologue  to  a  line  of  kings.        20 
I  strove  against  thee  and  my  hot-blood  son, 
Dull  blockhead  that  I  was  to  be  so  blind, 
But  now  my  sight  is  clear;  forgive  me, 

lady. 


Auranthe.  My  lord,  I  was  a  vassal  to 

your  frown, 
And  now  your  favour  makes  me  but  more 

humble; 

In  wintry  winds  the  simple  snow  is  safe, 
But  fadeth  at  the  greeting  of  the  sun: 
Unto  thine  anger  I  might  well  have  spoken, 
Taking  on  me  a  woman's  privilege, 
But   this   so   sudden   kindness   makes  me 

dumb.  30 

Otho.  What  need   of  this?    Enough,  if 

you  will  be 

A  potent  tutoress  to  my  wayward  boy. 
And  teach  him,  what  it  seems  his  nurse 

could  not, 

To  say,  for  once,  I  thank  you !     Sigifred  ! 
Albert.  He  has    not    yet  returned,  my 

gracious  liege. 
Otho.  What   then  !     No  tidings  of  my 

friendly  Arab  ? 
Conrad.  None,  mighty  Otho. 

\_To  one  of  his  Knights  who  goes  out. 

Send  forth  instantly 

An  hundred  horsemen  from  my  honoured 

gates, 

To  scour  the  plains  and  search  the  cot- 
tages. 

Cry  a  reward,  to  him  who  shall  first  bring 
News  of  that  vanished  Arabian,  4r 

A  f  ull-heap'd  helmet  of  the  purest  gold. 
Otho.  More   thanks,  good   Conrad;   for, 

except  my  son's, 

There  is  no  face  I  rather  would  behold 
Than  that  same  quick-eyed  pagan's.     By 

the  saints, 
This  coming  night  of   banquets  must  not 

light 
Her    dazzling     torches;     nor    the     music 

breathe 
Smooth,  without  clashing  cymbal,  tones  of 

peace 

And  in-door  melodies;  nor  the  ruddy  wine 
Ebb  spouting  to  the  lees;  if  I  pledge  not,    50 
In  my  first  cup,  that  Arab  ! 

Albert.  Mighty  Monarch, 

I  wonder  not  this  stranger's  victor-deeds 
So  hang  upon  your  spirit.     Twice  in  the 

fight 


SCENE  II 


OTHO   THE  GREAT 


163 


It  was  my  chance  to  meet  his  olive  brow, 
Triumphant     in     the     enemy's     shattered 

rhomb; 

And,  to  say  truth,  in  any  Christian  arm 
I  never  saw  such  prowess. 

Otho.  Did  you  ever  ? 

O,  't  is  a  noble  boy  !  —  tut !  —  what  do  I 

say? 

I  mean  a  triple  Saladin,  whose  eyes, 
When   in   the   glorious    scuffle    they   met 
mine,  60 

Seem'd  to  say  —  *  Sleep,  old  man,  in  safety 

sleep; 
I  am  the  victory  ! ' 

Conrad.  Pity  he  's  not  here. 

Otho.  And  my  son  too,  pity   he   is  not 

here. 
Lady  Auranthe,  I  would  not  make    you 

blush, 
But  can  you  give  a  guess  where  Ludolph 

is? 
Know  you  not  of  him  ? 

Auranthe.  Indeed,  my  liege,  no  secret  — 
Otho.  Nay,   nay,   without    more    words, 

dost  know  of  him  ? 

Auranthe.  I  would  I  were  so  over-fortu- 
nate, 
Both  for  his  sake  and  mine,  and  to  make 

glad 

A  father's  ears  with  tidings  of  his  son.      70 
Otho.  I  see  't  is  like  to  be  a  tedious  day. 
Were  Theodore  and  Gonfred  and  the  rest 
Sent  forth  with  my  commands  ? 

Albert.  Aye,  my  lord. 

Otho.  And  no  news  !  No  news  !  'Faith  ! 

't  is  very  strange 

He  thus  avoids  us.    Lady,  is 't  not  strange  ? 
Will   he   be   truant  to  you  too  ?     It  is  a 

shame. 

Conrad.  Will 't  please  your  highness  en- 
ter, and  accept, 
The  unworthy  welcome  of  your  servant's 

house  ? 

Leaving  your  cares  to  one  whose  diligence 
May  in  few  hours  make  pleasures  of  them 
all.  80 

Otho.  Not  so  tedious,  Conrad.     No,  no, 
no,— 


I  must  see  Ludolph  or  the  —  What 's  that 

shout  ? 
Voices  without.  Huzza  !  huzza  !  Long  live 

the  Emperor ! 

Other  voices.  Fall  back  !     Away  there  ! 
Otho.  Say  what  noise  is  that  ? 

ALBERT  advancing  from  the    back  of  the 
Stage,  whither  he  had  hastened  on  hearing 
the  cheers  of  the  soldiery. 
Albert.  It  is  young  Gersa,  the  Hungarian 

prince, 

Pick'd  like  a  red  stag  from  the  fallow  herd 
Of  prisoners.  Poor  prince,  forlorn  he  steps, 
Slow,  and  demure,  and  proud  in  his  de- 
spair. 

If  I  may  judge  by  his  so  tragic  bearing,    89 
His  eye  not  downcast,  and  his  folded  arm, 
He  doth  this  moment  wish  himself  asleep 
Among  his  fallen  captains  on  yon  plains. 

Enter  GERSA,  in  chains,  and  guarded. 

Otho.  Well  said,  Sir  Albert. 
Gersa.  Not  a  word  of  greeting, 

No  welcome  to  a  princely  visitor, 
Most  mighty  Otho?     Will  not  my  great 

host 

Vouchsafe  a  syllable,  before  he  bids 
His  gentlemen  conduct  me  with  all  care 
To  some  securest  lodging  —  cold  perhaps  ! 
Otho.  What  mood  is  this  ?  Hath  fortune 

touch'd  thy  brain  ? 

Gersa.  O  kings  and  princes  of  this  fev'- 

rous  world,  100 

What  abject  things,  what  mockeries  must 

ye  be, 

What  nerveless  minions  of  safe  palaces  ! 
When  here,  a  monarch,   whose  proud  foot 

is  used 

To  fallen  princes'  necks,  as  to  his  stirrup, 
Must  needs  exclaim  that  I  am  mad  for- 
sooth, 

Because  I  cannot  flatter  with  bent  knees 
My  conqueror  ! 

Otho.         Gersa,  I  think  you  wrong  me: 
I  think  I  have  a  better  fame  abroad. 

Gersa.  I  pr'ythee  mock  me  not  with  gen- 
tle speech,  J0q 


164 


DRAMAS 


ACT  I 


But,  as  a  favour,  bid  me  from  thy  presence; 
Let  me  no  longer  be  the  wondering  food 
Of  all  these  eyes;  pr'ythee  command  me 

hence  ! 
Ofho.  Do  not  mistake  me,  Gersa.     That 

you  may  not, 

Come,  fair  Auranthe,  try  if  your  soft  hands 
Can  manage  those  hard  rivets  to  set  free 
So  brave  a  prince  and  soldier. 

Auranthe  (sets  him  free).  Welcome  task  ! 
Gersa.  I  am  wound  up  in  deep  astonish- 
ment ! 

Thank  you,  fair  lady.     Otho  !  emperor  ! 
You  rob  me  of  myself;  my  dignity 
Is  now  your  infant;  I  am  a  weak  child.     120 
Otho.  Give  me  your  hand,  and  let  this 

kindly  grasp 
Live  in  our  memories. 

Gersa.  In  mine  it  will. 

I  blush  to  think  of  my  unchasten'd  tongue; 
But  I  was  haunted  by  the  monstrous  ghost 
Of  all  our  slain  battalions.     Sire,  reflect, 
And  pardon  you  will  grant,  that,  at  this 

hour, 

The  bruised  remnants  of  our  stricken  camp 
Are    huddling    undistinguish'd    my    dear 

friends, 
With    common    thousands,    into    shallow 

graves. 
Otho.  Enough,  most  noble  Gersa.     You 

are  free  130 

To  cheer  the  brave  remainder  of  your  host 
By  your  own  healing  presence,  and  that 

too, 

Not  as  their  leader  merely,  but  their  king; 
For,  as  I  hear,  the  wily  enemy, 
Who  eased  the  crownet  from  your  infant 

brows, 
Bloody  Taraxa,  is  among  the  dead. 

Gersa.  Then  I  retire,  so  generous  Otho 

please, 

Bearing  with  me  a  weight  of  benefits 
Too  heavy  to  be  borne. 

Otho.  It  is  not  so; 

Still  understand  me,  King  of  Hungary,    140 
Nor  judge  my  open  purposes  awry. 
Though  I  did  hold  you  high  in  my  esteem 
For  your  self's  sake,  I  do  not  personate 


The  stage-play  emperor  to  entrap  applause, 
To  set  the  silly  sort  o'  the  world  agape, 
And  make  the  politic  smile;    no,  I  have 

heard 
How  in  the  Council   you    condemn'd  this 

war, 

Urging  the  perfidy  of  broken  faith,  — 
For  that  I  am  your  friend. 

Gersa.  If  ever,  sire, 

You  are  my  enemy,  I  dare  here  swear     150 
'T  will   not  be  Gersa's  fault.     Otho,  fare- 
well! 
Otho.  Will   you   return,  Prince,   to   our 

banqueting  ? 
Gersa.  As  to  my  father's  board  I  will 

return. 
Otho.  Conrad,   with  all   due   ceremony, 

give 

The  prince  a  regal  escort  to  his  camp; 
Albert,  go  thou  and  bear  him  company. 
Gersa,  farewell ! 

Gersa.  All  happiness  attend  you  ! 

Otho.  Return  with  what  good  speed  you 

may;  for  soon 

We  must  consult  upon  our  terms  of  peace. 

[Exeunt  GERSA  and  ALBERT  with  others. 

And  thus  a  marble  column  do  I  build      160 

To  prop   my  empire's  dome.     Conrad,  in 

thee 

I  have  another  steadfast  one,  to  uphold 
The  portals  of  my  state ;  and,  for  my  own 
Pre-eminence  and  safety,  I  will  strive 
To  keep  thy  strength  upon  its  pedestal. 
For,  without  thee,  this  day  I  might  have 

been 

A  show-monster  about  the  streets  of  Prague, 
In   chains,   as   just  now  stood  that  noble 

prince: 

And  then  to  me  no  mercy  had  been  shown, 
For  when  the  conquer'd  lion  is  once  dun- 

geon'd,  170 

Who  lets   him  forth  again?   or  dares  to 

give 

An  old  lion  sugar-cakes  of  mild  reprieve  ? 
Not  to  thine  ear  alone  I  make  confession, 
But  to  all  here,  as,  by  experience, 
I  know  how   the   great   basement   of    all 

power 


SCENE  III 


OTHO   THE  GREAT 


Is   frankness,  and   a  true   tongue   to  the 

world; 

And  how  intriguing  secrecy  is  proof 
Of  fear  and  weakness,  and  a  hollow  state. 
Conrad,  I  owe  thee  much. 

Conrad.  To  kiss  that  hand, 

My  emperor,  is  ample  recompense,          180 
For  a  mere  act  of  duty. 

Otho.  Thou  art  wrong; 

For  what  can  any  man  on  earth  do  more  ? 
We  will  make  trial  of  your  house's  wel- 
come, 
My  bright  Auranthe  ! 

Conrad.       How  is  Friedburg  honoured  ! 

Enter  ETHELBERT  and  six  Monks. 

Ethelbert.  The  benison  of  heaven  on  your 

head, 
Imperial  Otho  ! 

Otho.      Who  stays  me  ?  Speak  !  Quick  ! 
Ethelbert.  Pause  but  one  moment,  mighty 

conqueror  ! 

Upon  the  threshold  of  this  house  of  joy. 
Otho.  Pray,  do  not  prose,  good  Ethelbert, 

but  speak 
What  is  your  purpose. 

Ethelbert.  The  restoration  of  some  cap- 
tive maids,  190 
Devoted  to  Heaven's  pious  ministries, 
Who,   driven   forth    from   their  religious 

cells, 

And  kept  in  thraldom  by  our  enemy, 
When  late  this  province  was  a  lawless  spoil, 
Still  weep  amid  the  wild  Hungarian  camp, 
Though  hemm'd  around  by  thy  victorious 

arms. 
Otho.  Demand  the  holy  sisterhood  in  our 

name 

From  Gersa's  tents.     Farewell,  old  Ethel- 
bert. 
Ethelbert.  The  saints  will  bless  you  for 

this  pious  care. 

Otho.  Daughter,  your  hand;   Ludolph's 
would  fit  it  best.  200 

Conrad.  Ho  !  let  the  music  sound  ! 
[Music.   ETHELBERT  raises  his  hands,  as  in 
benediction  of  OTHO.     Exeunt   severally. 
The  scene  closes  on  them. 


SCENE  III.  —  The  Country,  with  the 
Castle  in  the  distance 

Enter  LUDOLPH  and  SIGIFRED. 

Ludolph.  You  have  my  secret;  let  it  not 

be  breathed. 
Sigifred.  Still  give  me  leave  to  wonder 

that  the  Prince 

Ludolph  and  the  swift  Arab  are  the  same ; 
Still    to    rejoice    that  't    was  a  German 

arm 

Death  doing  in  a  turban'd  masquerade. 
Ludolph.  The  emperor  must  not  know  it, 

Sigifred. 

Sigifred.  I  pr'ythee,  why?     What  hap- 
pier hour  of  time 
Could  thy  pleased  star  point  down  upon 

from  heaven 
With    silver  index,    bidding    thee    make 

peace  ? 
Ludolph.  Still  it  must  not  be  known,  good 

Sigifred;  10 

The  star  may  point  oblique. 

Sigifred.  If  Otho  knew 

His  son  to  be  that  unknown  Mussulman, 
After  whose  spurring  heels  he   sent  me 

forth, 
With  one  of  his  well -pleased  Olympian 

oaths, 
The   charters  of  man's  greatness,  at  this 

hour 
He  would  be  watching  round  the  castle 

walls, 
And,  like  an  anxious   warder,   strain  his 

sight 
For  the   first  glimpse   of  such  a  son  re- 

turn'd  — 

Ludolph,  that  blast  of  the  Hungarians, 
That  Saracenic  meteor  of  the  fight,  20 

That  silent  fury,  whose  fell  scimitar 
Kept  danger  all  aloof  from  Otho's  head, 
And  left  him  space  for  wonder. 

Ludolph.  Say  no  more. 

Not  as  a  swordsman  would  I  pardon  claim, 
But  as  a  son.     The  bronzed  centurion, 
Long  toil'd  in  foreign  wars,  and  whose  high 

deeds 
Are  shaded  in  a  forest  of  tall  spears, 


i66 


DRAMAS 


ACT  I 


Known  only  to  his  troop,  hath  greater  plea 
Of  favour  with  my  sire  than  I  can  have. 
Sigifred.  My  lord,  forgive  me  that  I  can- 
not see  30 
How  this  proud  temper  with  clear  reason 

squares. 
What  made  you  then,  with  such  an  anxious 

love, 

Hover  around  that  life,  whose  bitter  days 
You  vext  with  bad  revolt  ?    Was  't  opium, 
Or  the   mad-fumed  wine  ?     Nay,  do  not 

frown, 

I  rather  would  grieve  with  you  than  up- 
braid. 
LudolpJi.  I  do  believe  you.   No, 'twas  not 

to  make 

A  father  his  son's  debtor,  or  to  heal 
His  deep  heart-sickness  for  a  rebel  child. 
'T  was  done  in  memory  of  my  boyish  days, 
Poor  cancel  for  his  kindness  to  my  youth,  4r 
For  all  his  calming  of  my  childish  griefs, 
And  all  his  smiles  upon  my  merriment. 
No,  not  a  thousand  foughten  fields  could 

sponge 

Those  days  paternal  from  my  memory, 
Though  now  upon  my  head  he  heaps  dis- 
grace. 
Sigifred.     My     prince,    you    think    too 

harshly  — 

Ludolph.  Can  I  so  ? 

Hath  he  not  gall'd  my  spirit  to  the  quick  ? 
And  with  a  sullen  rigour  obstinate  49 

Pour'd  out  a  phial  of  wrath  upon  my  faults  ? 
Hunted  me  as  the  Tartar  does  the  boar, 
Driven  me  to  the  very  edge  o'  the  world, 
And  almost  put  a  price  upon  my  head  ? 
Sigifred.  Remember  how  he  spared  the 

rebel  lords. 

LudolpJi.  Yes,  yes,  I  know  he  hath  a  no- 
ble nature 
That  cannot  trample  on  the  fallen.     But 

his 

Is  not  the  only  proud  heart  in  his  realm. 
He  hath  wrong'd  me,  and  I  have  done  him 

wrong; 
He  hath  loved  me,  and  I  have  shown  him 

kindness; 
We  should  be  almost  equal. 


Sigifred.  Yet,  for  all  this, 

I  would  you  had  appear'd  among  those 

lords,  6 1 

And  ta'en  his  favour. 

Ludolph.  Ha  !  till  now  I  thought 

My  friend  had  held  poor  Ludolph's  honour 

dear. 
What  !  would  you  have  me  sue  before  his 

throne 
And  kiss   the   courtier's    missal,   its    silk 

steps  ? 

Or  hug  the  golden  housings  of  his  steed, 
Amid   a  camp,   whose    steeled   swarms   I 

dared 
But    yesterday  ?      And,   at    the    trumpet 

sound, 

Bow  like  some  unknown  mercenary's  flag 
And  lick  the  soiled   grass  ?     No,  no,  my 

friend,  70 

I  would  not,  I,  be  pardon'd  in  the  heap, 
And  bless  indemnity  with  all  that  scum,  — 
Those  men  I  mean,  who  on  my  shoulders 

propp'd 
Their  weak   rebellion,    winning    me    with 

lies, 

And  pitying  forsooth  my  many  wrongs; 
Poor    self-deceived    wretches,   who    must 

think 

Each  one  himself  a  king  in  embryo, 
Because    some  dozen  vassals  cried  —  my 

lord! 

Cowards,  who  never  knew  their  little  hearts, 
Till  flurried  danger  held  the  mirror  up,  80 
And  then  they  own'd  themselves  without  a 

blush, 
Curling,  like  spaniels,  round  my  father's 

feet. 

Such  things  deserted  me  and  are  forgiven, 
While  I,  less  guilty,  am  an  outcast  still, 
And  will  be,  for  I  love  such  fair  disgrace. 
Sigifred.    I  know  the    clear    truth;    so 

would  Otho  see, 

For  he  is  just  and  noble.     Fain  would  I 
Be  pleader  for  you  — 

Ludolph.  He  '11  hear  none  of  it; 

You  know  his  temper,  hot,  proud,  obstinate; 
Endanger  not  yourself  so  uselessly.  90 

I  will  encounter  his  thwart  spleen  myself, 


SCENE  I 


OTHO   THE    GREAT 


167 


To-day,  at  the  Duke  Conrad's,  where   he 


His  crowded  state  after  the  victory, 
There  will  I  be,  a  most  unwelcome  guest, 
And  parley  with  him,  as  a  son  should  do, 
Who  doubly  loathes  a  father's  tyranny; 
Tell  him  how  feeble  is  that  tyranny; 
How  the  relationship  of  father  and  son 
Is  no  more  valid  than  a  silken  leash 
Where  lions  tug  adverse,  if  love  grow  not 
From    interchanged    love    through    many 

years.  101 

Aye,  and  those  turreted  Franconian  walls, 
Like  to  a  jealous  casket,  hold  my  pearl  — 
My  fair  Auranthe  !     Yes,  I  will  be  there. 
Sigifred.  Be  not  so  rash;  wait   till  his 

wrath  shall  pass, 
Until  his  royal  spirit  softly  ebbs 
Self-influenced;  then,  in  his  morning  dreams 
He  will  forgive  thee,  and  awake  in  grief 
To  have  not  thy  good  morrow. 

Ludolph.  Yes,  to-day 

I  must  be  there,  while   her  young  pulses 

beat  no 

Among  the  new  -  plumed  minions  of  the 

war. 

Have  you  seen  her  of  late  ?     No  ?     Au- 
ranthe, 

Franconia's  fair  sister,  't  is  I  mean. 
She   should   be    paler    for   my   troublous 

days  — 

And  there  it  is  —  my  father's  iron  lips 
Have  sworn  divorcement  'twixt  me  and  my 

right. 
Sigifred  (aside).  Auranthe  !  I  had  hoped 

this  whim  had  pass'd. 
Ludolph.  And,  Sigifred,  with  all  his  love 

of  justice, 
When  will  he  take  that  grandchild  in  his 

arms, 
That,  by  my  love  I  swear,  shall  soon  be 

his  ?  120 

This  reconcilement  is  impossible, 
For  see  —  but  who  are  these  ? 

Sigifred.  They  are  messengers 

From  our  great  emperor;  to  you,  I  doubt 

not, 
For  couriers  are  abroad  to  seek  you  out. 


Enter  THEODORE  and  GONFRED. 
Theodore.  Seeing  so  many  vigilant  eyes 

explore 

The  province  to  invite  your  highness  back 
To  your  high  dignities,  we  are  too  happy. 
Gonfred.  We  have  eloquence  to  colour 

justly 
The  emperor's  anxious  wishes. 

Ludolph.  Go.    I  follow  you. 

[Exeunt  THEODORE  and  GONFRED. 
I  play  the  prude:  it  is  but  venturing  — 
Why  should  he  be  so  earnest  ?     Come,  my 
friend,  13* 

Let  us  to  Friedburg  castle. 


ACT   II 
SCENE  I.  —  An  antechamber  in  the  Castle 

Enter  LUDOLPH  and  SIGIFRED. 
Ludolph.  No  more  advices,  no  more  cau- 
tioning; 

I  leave  it  all  to  fate  —  to  any  thing  ! 
I  cannot  square  my  conduct  to  time,  place, 
Or  circumstance;  to  me  'tis  all  a  mist ! 
Sigifred.  I  say  no  more. 
Ludolph.  It  seems  I  am  to  wait 

Here  in  the  anteroom;  —  that  may  be   a 

trifle. 

You  see  now  how  I  dance  attendance  here, 
Without  that  tyrant  temper,  you  so  blame, 
Snapping  the  rein.  You  have  medicined 

me 

With  good  advices;  and  I  here  remain,     ic 
In  this  most  honourable  anteroom, 
Your  patient  scholar. 

Sigifred.  Do  not  wrong  me,  Prince. 

By  Heavens,  I  'd  rather  kiss  Duke  Conrad's 

slipper, 
When  in  the  morning  he  doth  yawn  with 

pride, 

Than  see  you  humbled  but  a  half-degree  ! 
Truth  is,  the  Emperor  would  fain  dismiss 
The  Nobles  ere  he  sees  you. 

Enter  GONFRED  from  the  Council-room. 


Ludolph. 


Well,  sir!  what? 


1 68 


DRAMAS 


ACT  II 


Gonfred.  Great  honour   to   the    Prince  ! 

The  Emperor, 

Hearing  that  his  brave  son  had  reappeared, 
Instant    dismiss'd    the   Council    from   his 

sight,  20 

As  Jove  fans  off  the  clouds.     Even  now 

they  pass.  [Exit. 

Enter  the  Nobles  from  the  Council-room. 
They  cross  the  Stage,  bowing  with  respect 
to  LUDOLPH,  he  frowning  on  them.  CON- 
RAD follows.  Exeunt  Nobles. 

Ludolph.  Not  the  discoloured  poisons  of 

a  fen, 
Which  he,  who  breathes,  feels  warning  of 

his  death, 

Could,  taste  so  nauseous  to  the  bodily  sense, 
As  these  prodigious  sycophants  disgust 
The  soul's  fine  palate. 

Conrad.  Princely  Ludolph,  hail ! 

Welcome,   thou    younger   sceptre   to    the 

realm  ! 
Strength  to  thy  virgin  crownet's  golden 

buds, 

That  they,  against  the  winter  of  thy  sire, 
May  burst,  and  swell,  and  flourish   round 

thy  brows,  30 

Maturing  to  a  weighty  diadem  ! 
Yet  be  that  hour  far  off;  and  may  he  live, 
Who  waits  for  thee,  as  the  chapp'd  earth 

for  rain. 
Set    my  life's    star !     I  have  lived  long 

enough, 

Since  under  my  glad  roof,  propitiously, 
Father  and  son  each  other  re-possess. 
Ludolph.  Fine  wording,  Duke  !  but  words 

could  never  yet 
Forestall  the  fates;  have  you  not  learnt  that 

yet? 
Let  me  look  well:  your  features  are  the 

same; 
Your  gait  the  same;  your  hair  of  the  same 

shade;  40 

As  one  I  knew  some  passed  weeks  ago, 
Who  sung  far  different   notes  into   mine 

ears. 

I  have  mine  own  particular  comments  on 't; 
You  have  your  own,  perhaps. 


Conrad.  My  gracious  Prince, 

All  men  may  err.  In  truth  I  was  deceived 
In  your  great  father's  nature,  as  you  were. 
Had  I  known  that  of  him  I  have  since 

known, 
And  what  you  soon  will  learn,  I  would  have 

turn'd 
My  sword  to  my  own  throat,  rather  than 

held 
Its  threatening  edge  against  a  good  King's 

quiet:  50 

Or   with    one    word    fever'd    you,   gentle 

Prince, 
Who  seem'd  to  me,  as  rugged  times  then 

went, 
Indeed   too  much   oppressed.     May  I  be 

bold 

To  tell  the  Emperor  you  will  haste  to  him  ? 
Ludolph.  Your  Dukedom's  privilege  will 

grant  so  much. 

[Exit  CONRAD. 

He 's  very  close  to  Otho,  a  tight  leech  ! 
Your  hand  —  I  go  !  Ha  !  here  the  thunder 

comes 
Sullen  against  the  wind  !     If  in  two  angry 

brows 
My  safety  lies,  then  Sigifred,  I  'm  safe. 

Enter  OTHO  and  CONRAD. 

Otho.  Will  you    make  Titan    play  the 

lackey-page  60 

To  chattering  pigmies  ?    I  would  have  you 

know 

That  such  neglect  of  our  high  Majesty 
Annuls  all  feel  of  kindred.    What  is  son,  — 
Or  friend  —  or   brother  —  or  all   ties   of 

blood,— 
When  the  whole  kingdom,  centred  in  our- 

self, 

Is  rudely  slighted  ?  Who  am  I  to  wait  ? 
By  Peter's  chair  !  I  have  upon  my  tongue 
A  word  to  fright  the  proudest  spirit 

here  !  — 
Death  !  —  and  slow  tortures  to  the  hardy 

fool, 
Who  dares  take  such  large  charter  from 

our  smiles  !  70 

Conrad,  we  would  be  private  !     Sigifred  ! 


SCENE  I 


OTHO   THE   GREAT 


169 


Off !     And  none  pass  this  way  on  pain  of 
death  ! 

[Exeunt  CONRAD  and  SIGIFRED. 
Ludolph.  This  was  but  half  expected,  my 

good  sire, 

Yet  I  am  grieved  at  it,  to  the  full  height, 
As  though  my  hopes  of  favour  had  been 

whole. 
Otho.  How  you  indulge  yourself  !    What 

can  you  hope  for  ? 
Ludolph.  Nothing,  my  liege,  I  have  to 

hope  for  nothing. 

I  come  to  greet  you  as  a  loving  son, 
And  then  depart,  if  I  may  be  so  free, 
Seeing  that  blood  of  yours   in   my  warm 
veins  80 

Has  not  yet  mitigated  into  milk. 
Otho.  What  would  you,  sir  ? 
Ludolph.  A  lenient  banishment; 

So  please  you  let  me  unmolested  pass 
This  Conrad's  gates,  to  the  wide  air  again. 
I  want  no  more.     A  rebel  wants  no  more. 

Otho.  And  shall  I  let  a  rebel  loose  again 
To   muster   kites   and   eagles    'gainst   my 

head? 
No,  obstinate  boy,  you  shall  be  kept  caged 

up, 
Served   with   harsh   food,    with  scum   for 

Sunday-drink. 
Ludolph.  Indeed  ! 

Otho.  And  chains  too  heavy  for  your  life: 
I  '11  choose  a  jailer,  whose  swart  monstrous 
face  9o 

Shall  be  a  hell  to  look  upon,  and  she  — 
Ludolph.  Ha ! 

Otho.  Shall  be  your  fair  Auranthe. 
Ludolph.  Amaze  !  Amaze  ! 

Otho.  To-day  you  marry  her. 
Ludolph.  This  is  a  sharp  jest ! 

Otho.  No.     None  at  all.     When  have  I 

said  a  lie  ? 
Ludolph.  If  I  sleep  not,  I  am  a  waking 

wretch. 

Otho.  Not  a  word  more.     Let  me  em- 
brace my  child. 
Ludolph.  I  dare  not.     'T  would   pollute 

so  good  a  father  ! 
O  heavy  crime !  that  your  son's  blinded  eyes 


Could  not  see  all  his  parent's  love  aright, 
As  now  I  see  it.     Be  not  kind  to  me  —    101 
Punish  me  not  with  favour. 

Otho.  Are  you  sure, 

Ludolph,  you  have  no  saving  plea  in  store  ? 
Ludolph.  My  father,  none  ! 
Otho.  Then  you  astonish  me. 

Ludolph.  No,  I  have  no  plea.     Disobedi- 
ence, 

Rebellion,  obstinacy,  blasphemy, 

Are  all  my  counsellors.     If  they  can  make 

My  crooked  deeds  show  good  and  plausible, 

Then  grant  me  loving  pardon,  but  not  else, 

Good  Gods  !  not  else,  in  any  way,  my  liege  ! 

Otho.  You  are  a  most  perplexing,  noble 

boy.  HI 

Ludolph.  You  not  less  a  perplexing  noble 

father. 
Otho.  Well,  you  shall  have  free  passport 

through  the  gates. 
Farewell! 

Ludolph.  Farewell !  and   by  these  tears 

believe, 

And  still  remember,  I  repent  in  pain 
All  my  misdeeds  ! 

Otho.  Ludolph,  I  will !  I  will  ! 

But,  Ludolph,  ere  you  go,  I  would  inquire 
If  you,  in  all  your  wandering,  ever  met 
A  certain  Arab  haunting  in  these  parts. 
Ludolph.  No,  my  good  lord,  I  cannot  say 
I  did.  120 

Otho.  Make  not  your  father  blind  before 

his  time; 

Nor  let  these  arms  paternal  hunger  more 
For  an  embrace,  to  dull  the  appetite 
Of  my  great  love  for  thee,  my  supreme 

child ! 
Come  close,  and  let  me  breathe  into  thine 

ear. 
I  knew  you  through  disguise.     You  are  the 

Arab! 

You  can't  deny  it.  [Embracing  him. 

Ludolph.  Happiest  of  days  ! 

Otho.  We  '11  make  it  so. 
Ludolph.  'Stead  of  one  fatted  calf 

Ten  hecatombs  shall  bellow  out  their  last, 
Smote  'twixt  the  horns  by  the  death-stun- 
ning mace  130 


DRAMAS 


ACT  II 


Of  Mars,  and  all  the  soldiery  shall  feast 
Nobly    as    Nimrod's    masons,    when    the 

towers 

Of  Nineveh  new  kiss'd  the  parted  clouds  ! 
Otho.  Large  as  a  God  speak  out,  where 

all  is  thine. 
Ludolph.  Ay,  father,  but  the  fire  in  my 

sad  breast 
Is  quench'd  with  inward  tears  !      I  must 

rejoice 

For  you,  whose  wings  so  shadow  over  me 
In  tender  victory,  but  for  myself 
I  still  must  mourn.     The  fair  Auranthe 
mine !  139 

Too  great  a  boon  !     I  pr'ythee  let  me  ask 
What  more  than  I  know  of  could  so  have 

changed 
Your  purpose  touching  her. 

Otho.  At  a  word,  this: 

In  no  deed  did  you  give  me  more  offence 
Than  your  rejection  of  Erminia. 
To  my  appalling,  I  saw  too  good  proof 
Of    your    keen-eyed    suspicion,  —  she    is 

naught  ! 

Ludolph.  You  are  convinced  ? 
Otho.  Ay,  spite  of  her  sweet  looks. 

O,  that  my  brother's  daughter  should  so  fall! 
Her  fame  has  pass'd  into  the  grosser  lips 
Of  soldiers  in  their  cups. 

Ludolph.  'T  is  very  sad. 

Otho.  No  more  of  her.     Auranthe  —  Lu- 
dolph, come  !  151 
This  marriage  be  the  bond  of  endless  peace  ! 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE   II.  —  The  entrance  of  GERSA'S 
Tent  in  the  Hungarian  Camp 

Enter  ERMINIA. 

Erminia.  Where  !  where  !  where  shall  I 

find  a  messenger  ? 

A  trusty  soul  ?     A  good  man  in  the  camp  ? 
Shall  I  go  myself?     Monstrous  wicked- 
ness ! 

O  cursed  Conrad  !  devilish  Auranthe  ! 
Here  is  proof  palpable  as  the  bright  sun  ! 
O  for  a  voice  to  reach  the  Emperor's  ears  ! 
[Shouts  in  the  camp. 


Enter  an  HUNGARIAN  CAPTAIN. 
Captain.  Fair   prisoner,  you   hear  those 

joyous  shouts  ? 
The  king  —  aye,  now  our  king,  —  but  still 

your  slave, 

Young  Gersa,  from  a  short  captivity 
Has  just  returu'd.     He  bids  me  say,  bright 
dame,  10 

That  even  the  homage  of  his  ranged  chiefs 
Cures  not  his  keen  impatience  to  behold 
Such  beauty  once  again.     What  ails  you, 

lady? 

Erminia.  Say,  is  not  that  a  German,  yon- 
der ?     There ! 
Captain.  Methinks  by  his  stout  bearing 

he  should  be  — 

Yes  —  it  is  Albert;  a  brave  German  knight, 
And  much  in  the  Emperor's  favour. 

Erminia.  I  would  fain 

Inquire  of  friends  and  kinsfolk;  how  they 

fared 
In  these  rough  times.     Brave  soldier,  as 

you  pass 

To  royal  Gersa  with  my  humble  thanks,    20 
Will  you  send  yonder  knight  to  me  ? 
Captain.  I  will.  [Exit. 

Erminia.  Yes,  he  was  ever  known  to  be 

a  man 

Frank,  open,  generous;  Albert  I  may  trust. 
O   proof  !    proof  !    proof  !       Albert 's    an 

honest  man; 

Not  Ethelbert  the  monk,  if  he  were  here, 
Would  I  hold  more  trustworthy.     Now  ! 

Enter  ALBERT. 

Albert.  Good  Gods ! 

Lady  Erminia  !  are  you  prisoner 
In  this  beleaguer'd  camp?     Or  are  you 

here 
Of  your  own  will  ?    You  pleased  to  send 

for  me. 

By  Venus,  't  is  a  pity  I  knew  not  30 

Your  plight  before,  and,  by  her   Son,   I 

swear 

To  do  you  every  service  you  can  ask. 
What  would  the  fairest—  ? 

Erminia.  Albert,  will  you  swear  ? 

Albert.  I  have.     Well? 


SCENE  II 


OTHO   THE   GREAT 


171 


Erminia.  Albert,  you  have  fame  to  lose. 
If  men,  in  court  and  camp,  lie  not  outright, 
You  should  be,  from  a  thousand,  chosen 

forth 

To  do  an  honest  deed.     Shall  I  confide  —  ? 
Albert.  Aye,  any  thing  to  me,  fair  crea- 
ture.    Do  ; 
Dictate  my  task.     Sweet  woman,  — 

Erminia.  Truce  with  that. 

You    understand  me   not ;    and,   in   your 
speech,  40 

I  see  how  far  the  slander  is  abroad. 
Without  proof  could  you  think  me  inno- 
cent ? 
Albert.  Lady,  I  should  rejoice  to  know 

you  so. 
Erminia.  If  you  have   any  pity  for  a 

maid, 

Suffering  a  daily  death  from  evil  tongues; 
Any  compassion  for  that  Emperor's  niece, 
Who,  for  your  bright  sword  and  clear  hon- 


Lif ted  you  from  the  crowd  of  common  men 

Into  the  lap  of  honour;  —  save  me,  knight ! 

Albert.  How?    Make  it  clear;  if  it  be 

possible,  50 

I  by  the  banner  of  Saint  Maurice  swear 
To  right  you. 

Erminia.    Possible  !  —  Easy.       O     my 

heart ! 
This  letter's  not  so  soil'd  but  you  may 

read  it;  — 
Possible!     There  —  that  letter  !     Read  — 

read  it.  [Gives  him  a  letter. 

ALBERT  (reading}. 

'To  the  Duke  Conrad.  —  Forget  the 
threat  you  made  at  parting,  and  I  will  for- 
get to  send  the  Emperor  letters  and  papers 
of  yours  I  have  become  possessed  of.  His 
life  is  no  trifle  to  me;  his  death  you  shall 
find  none  to  yourself.'  (Speaks  to  himself.) 
'T  is  me  —  my  life  that 's  pleaded  for  ! 
(Reads.)  *  He,  for  his  own  sake,  will  be 
dumb  as  the  grave.  Erminia  has  my  shame 
fix'd  upon  her,  sure  as  a  wen.  We  are 
safe. 

'  AURANTHE.' 


A  she-devil !     A  dragon  !     I  her  imp  ! 
Fire  of  Hell !     Auranthe  —  lewd  demon  ! 
Where  got  you  this  ?     Where  ?     When  ? 
Erminia.  I  found  it  in  the  tent,  among 

some  spoils 

Which,  being  noble,  fell  to  Gersa's  lot.     70 
Come  in,  and  see. 

[They  go  in  and  return. 
Albert.  Villainy!     Villainy! 

Conrad's  sword,  his  corslet,  and  his  helm, 
And  his  letter.     Caitiff,  he  shall  feel  — 
Erminia.  I  see  you  are  thunderstruck. 

Haste,  haste  away  ! 

Albert.  O,  I  am  tortured  by  this  villainy. 
Erminia.  You  needs  must  be.     Carry  it 

swift  to  Otho; 

Tell  him,  moreover,  I  am  prisoner 
Here  in  this  camp,  where  all  the  sisterhood, 
Forced  from  their  quiet  cells,  are  parcel'd 

out 

For  slaves  among  these   Huns.      Away ! 
Away !  80 

Albert.  I  am  gone. 
Erminia.  Swift  be  your  steed  !     Within 

this  hour 
The  Emperor  will  see  it. 

Albert.  Ere  I  sleep: 

That  I  can  swear.  [Hurries  out. 

Gersa  (without).  Brave  captains  !  thanks. 

Enough 
Of  loyal  homage  now  ! 

Enter  GERSA. 

Erminia.  Hail,  royal  Hun  ! 

Gersa.  What  means  this,  fair  one  ?  Why 
in  such  alarm  ? 

Who  was  it  hurried  by  me  so  distract  ? 

It  seem'd  you  were  in  deep  discourse  to- 
gether; 

Your   doctrine   has  not   been  so  harsh  to 
him 

As  to  my  poor  deserts.     Come,  come,  be 
plain. 

I  am  no  jealous  fool  to  kill  you  both,        90 

Or,  for  such  trifles,  rob  th'  adorned  world 

Of  such  a  beauteous  vestal. 

Erminia.  I  grieve,  my  Lord, 

To  hear  you  condescend  to  ribald-phrase. 


172 


DRAMAS 


ACT  II 


Gersa.  This  is  too  much  !     Hearken,  my 

lady  pure  ! 
Erminia.  Silence  !  and  hear  the  magic  of 

a  name  — 
Erminia  !       I    am    she,  —  the    Emperor's 

niece  ! 
Praised  be  the  Heavens,  I  now  dare  own 

myself  ! 
Gersa.  Erminia  !     Indeed  !     I  've  heard 

of  her. 

Pr'ythee,  fair  lady,  what  chance  brought 
you  here  ?  ^  99 

Erminia.  Ask  your  own  soldiers. 
Gersa.        And  you  dare  own  your  name. 
For  loveliness  you  may  —  and  for  the  rest 
My  vein  is  not  censorious. 

Erminia.  Alas  !  poor  me  ! 

'T  is  false  indeed. 

Gersa.  Indeed  you  are  too  fair: 

The  swan,  soft  leaning  on  her  fledgy  breast, 
When  to  the  stream  she  launches,  looks 

not  back 

With  such  a  tender  grace;  nor  are  her  wings 
So  white  as  your  soul  is,  if  that  but  be 
Twin  picture  to  your  face,  Erminia  ! 
To-day,  for  the  first  day,  I  am  a  king,     109 
Yet  would  I  give  my  unworn  crown  away 
To  know  you  spotless. 

Erminia.  Trust  me  one  day  more, 

Generously,  without  more  certain  guaran- 
tee, 
Than  this  poor  face  you  deign  to  praise  so 

much; 

After  that,  say  and  do  whate'er  you  please. 
If  I  have  any  knowledge  of  you,  sir, 
I  think,  nay  I  am  sure,  you  will  grieve 

much 

To  hear  my  story.     O  be  gentle  to  me, 
For  I  am  sick  and  faint  with  many  wrongs, 
Tired  out,  and  weary-worn  with  contume- 
lies. 119 
Gersa.  Poor  lady ! 

Enter  ETHELBERT. 

Erminia.  Gentle  Prince,  't  is  false  indeed. 
Good  morrow,  holy  father  !     I  have  had 
Your  prayers,  though  I  look'd  for  you  in 
vain. 


Ethelbert.  Blessings  upon  you,  daughter  ! 

Sure  you  look 

Too  cheerful  for  these  foul  pernicious  days. 
Young  man,  you  heard  this  virgin  say  't  was 

false,  — 
'T  is  false,  I  say.     What !    can  you  not 

employ 
Your  temper  elsewhere,  'mong  those  burly 

tents, 
But  you  must  taunt  this  dove,  for  she  hath 

lost 

The  Eagle  Otho  to  beat  off  assault  ? 
Fie  !     Fie  !     But  I  will  be  her  guard  my- 
self, i3o 
I'  the  Emperor's  name.     I  here  demand 
Herself,  and  all  her  sisterhood.     She  false  ! 
Gersa.  Peace  !  peace,  old  man  !     I  can- 
not think  she  is. 
Ethelbert.  Whom  I  have  known  from  her 

first  infancy, 

Baptized  her  in  the  bosom  of  the  Church, 
Watch'd  her,  as  anxious  husbandmen  the 

grain, 

From  the  first  shoot  till  the  unripe  mid- 
May, 

Then  to  the  tender  ear  of  her  June  days, 
Which,  lifting  sweet  abroad  its  timid  green, 
Is  blighted  by  the  touch  of  calumny;        I40 
You  cannot  credit  such  a  monstrous  tale. 
Gersa.   I  cannot.     Take  her.     Fair  Er- 
minia, 

I  follow  you  to  Friedburg,  —  is  't  not  so  ? 
Erminia.  Ay,  so  we  purpose. 
Ethelbert.  Daughter,  do  you  so  ? 

How 's  this  ?     I  marvel !     Yet  you  look 

not  mad. 
Erminia.  I  have  good  news  to  tell  you, 

Ethelbert. 

Gersa.  Ho  !  ho,  there  !     Guards  ! 
Your  blessing,  father  !     Sweet  Erminia, 
Believe  me,  I  am  well  nigh  sure  — 

Erminia.  Farewell 

Short  time  will  show.  {Enter  Chiefs. 

Yes,  father  Ethelbert, 

I  have  news  precious  as  we  pass  along.    151 

Ethelbert.  Dear  daughter,  you  shall  guide 

me. 
Erminia.     To  no  ill. 


SCENE  I 


OTHO   THE   GREAT 


'73 


Gersa.  Command  an  escort  to  the  Fried- 
burg  lines.  [Exeunt  Chiefs. 
Pray  let  me  lead.     Fair  lady,  forget  not 
Gersa,  how  he  believed  you  innocent. 
I  follow  you  to  Friedburg  with  all  speed. 

[Exeunt. 

ACT    III 
SCENE  I. —  The  Country 

Enter  ALBERT. 
Albert.  O  that  the  earth  were  empty,  as 

when  Cain 

Had  no  perplexity  to  hide  his  head  ! 
Or  that  the  sword  of  some  brave  enemy 
Had  put  a  sudden  stop  to  my  hot  breath, 
And  hurl'd  me  down  the  illimitable  gulf 
Of  times  past,  unremember'd  !     Better  so 
Than  thus  fast-limed  in  a  cursed  snare, 
The  white  limbs  of  a  wanton.     This  the  end 
Of  an  aspiring  life  !     My  boyhood  past 
In  feud  with  wolves  and  bears,  when  no 

eye  saw  10 

The  solitary  warfare,  fought  for  love 
Of  honour  'mid  the  growling  wilderness. 
My  sturdier  youth,  maturing  to  the  sword, 
Won  by  the  syren-trumpets,  and  the  ring 
Of  shields  upon  the  pavement,  when  bright 

mail'd 
Henry   the   Fowler   pass'd   the  streets   of 

Prague. 

Was  't  to  this  end  I  louted  and  became 
The  menial  of  Mars,  and  held  a  spear 
Sway'd  by  command,  as   corn  is  by  the 

wind? 

Is  it  for  this,  I  now  am  lifted  up  20 

By  Europe's  throned  Emperor,  to  see 
My  honour  be  my  executioner,  — 
My  love  of  fame,  my  prided  honesty 
Put  to  the  torture  for  confessional  ? 
Then  the  damn'd  crime  of  blurting  to  the 

world 
A  woman's  secret !  —  Though  a  fiend  she 

be, 

Too  tender  of  my  ignominious  life; 
But  then  to  wrong  the  generous  Emperor 
In  such  a  searching  point,  were  to  give  up 


My  soul  for  foot-ball  at  Hell's  holiday  !    3o 
I  must  confess,  —  and  cut  my  throat,  —  to- 
day ? 
To-morrow  ?     Ho  !  some  wine  ! 

Enter  SIGIFRED. 

Sigifred.  A  fine  humour  — 

Albert.  Who  goes   there?     Count  Sigi- 
fred ?     Ha  !  ha  ! 
Sigifred.  What,  man,  do  you  mistake  the 

hollow  sky 
For  a  throng'd  tavern,  —  and  these  stubbed 

trees 
For  old  serge  hangings,  —  me,  your  humble 

friend, 
For  a  poor  waiter  ?     Why,  man,  how  you 

stare ! 
What  gipsies    have    you  been    carousing 

with? 

No,  no  more  wine;   methinks  you've  had 

enough.  39 

Albert.  You  well  may  laugh  and  banter. 

What  a  fool 

An  injury  may  make  of  a  staid  man  ! 
Tou  shall  know  all  anon. 

Sigifred.  Some  tavern  brawl  ? 

Albert.  'Twas  with  some  people  out  of 

common  reach; 
Revenge  is  difficult. 

Sigifred.  I  am  your  friend; 

We  meet  again  to-day,  and  can  confer 
Upon  it.     For  the  present  I  'm  in  haste. 
Albert.  Whither? 
Sigifred.  To  fetch  King   Gersa  to  the 

feast. 

The  Emperor  on  this  marriage  is  so  hot, 
Pray  Heaven  it  end  not  in  apoplexy  ! 
The  very  porters,  as  I  pass'd  the  doors,    50 
Heard  his  loud  laugh,  and  answer'd  in  full 

choir. 

I  marvel,  Albert,  you  delay  so  long 
From  these  bright  revelries;  go,  show  your- 

self, 
You  may  be  made  a  duke. 

Albert.  Ay,  very  like: 

Pray,   what   day   has   his    Highness    fix'd 

upon? 
Sigifred.  For  what  ? 


DRAMAS 


ACT  III 


Albert.  The  marriage.     What  else  can  I 

mean  ? 
Sigifred.  To-day.    O,  I  forgot,  you  could 

not  know; 

The  news  is  scarce  a  minute  old  with  me. 
Albert.  Married  to-day  !    To-day  !    You 

did  not  say  so  ? 

Sigifred.  Now,   while   I  speak  to    you, 
their  comely  heads  60 

Are  bow'd  before  the  mitre. 

Albert.  O  !  monstrous  ! 

Sigifred.  What  is  this? 

Albert.       Nothing,  Sigifred.     Farewell ! 

We  '11  meet  upon  our  subject.     Farewell, 

count !  [Exit. 

Sigifred.  Is  this  clear-headed   Albert  ? 

He  brain-turn'd ! 
'T  is  as  portentous  as  a  meteor.  [Exit. 

SCENE  II.  —  An  Apartment  in  the  Castle 
Enter  as  from  the  Marriage,  OTHO,  Lu- 

DOLPH,     AURANTHE,     CONRAD,      Nobles, 

Knights,  Ladies,  etc.     Music. 

Otho.  Now  Ludolph !  Now,  Auranthe  ! 

Daughter  fair ! 
What  can  I  find  to  grace  your  nuptial 

day 
More  than  my  love,  and  these  wide  realms 

in  fee? 

Ludolph.  I  have  too  much. 
Auranthe.  And  I,  my  liege,  by  far. 

Ludolph.    Auranthe !    I  have !    O,    my 

bride,  my  love  ! 

Not  all  the  gaze  upon  us  can  restrain 
My   eyes,  too  long  poor  exiles  from  thy 

face, 

From  adoration,  and  my  foolish  tongue 
From  uttering  soft  responses  to  the  love 
I  see  in  thy  mute  beauty  beaming  forth  !    10 
Fair  creature,  bless  me  with  a  single  word  ! 
All  mine  ! 

Auranthe.  Spare,  spare  me,  my  Lord;  I 

swoon  else. 
Ludolph.   Soft  beauty  !  by  to-morrow  I 

should  die, 
Wert  thou  not  mine. 

[They  talk  apart. 


1st  Lady.     How  deep  she  has  bewitch'd 
him  ! 

1st  Knight.  Ask  you  for  her  recipe  for 
love  philtres. 

2t?  Lady.  They  hold  the  Emperor  in  ad- 
miration. 

Otho.  If  ever  king  was  happy,  that  am  I ! 
What   are   the   cities   'yond  the   Alps    to 

me, 

The  provinces  about  the  Danube's  mouth, 
The  promise  of  fair  sail  beyond  the  Rhone ; 
Or  routing  out  of  Hyperborean  hordes,     21 
To  these  fair  children,  stars  of  a  new  age  ? 
Unless  perchance  I  might  rejoice  to  win 
This  little  ball  of  earth,  and  chuck  it  them 
To  play  with ! 

Auranthe.  Nay,  my  Lord,  I  do  not  know. 

Ludolph.  Let  me  not  famish. 

Otho  (to  Conrad).  Good  Franconia, 

You  heard  what  oath  I  sware,  as  the  sun 

rose, 
That  unless  Heaven  would  send  me  back 

my  son, 

My  Arab,  —  no  soft  music  should  enrich 
The  cool  wine,  kiss'd  off  with  a  soldier's 
smack;  30 

Now  all  my  empire,  barter'd  for  one  feast, 
Seems  poverty. 

Conrad.  Upon  the  neighbour-plain 

The  heralds  have  prepared  a  royal  lists; 
Your  knights,  found  war-proof  in  the  bloody 

field, 
Speed  to  the  game. 

Otho.         Well,  Ludolph,  what  say  you  ? 

Ludolph.  My  lord  ! 

Otho.  A  tourney  ? 

Conrad.  Or,  if  't  please  you  best  — 

Ludolph.  I  want  no  more  ! 

1st  Lady.  He  soars  ! 

2eZ  Lady.  Past  all  reason. 

Ludolph.  Though  heaven's  choir 
Should  in  a  vast  circumference  descend    39 
And  sing  for  my  delight,  I  'd  stop  my  ears  ! 
Though  bright  Apollo's  car  stood  burning 

here, 

And  he  put  out  an  arm  to  bid  me  mount, 
His  touch  an  immortality,  not  I  ! 
This  earth,  this  palace,  this  room,  Auranthe ! 


SCENE  II 


OTHO   THE   GREAT 


'75 


Otho.  This  is  a   little  painful;  just  too 

much. 

Conrad,  if  he  flames  longer  in  this  wise, 
I  shall  believe  in  wizard-woven  loves 
And  old  romances;  but  I  '11  break  the  spell. 
Ludolph  ! 

Conrad.  He  '11  be  calm,  anon. 
Ludolph.  You  call'd ! 

Yes,  yes,  yes,  I  offend.     You  must  forgive 
me:  50 

Not  being  quite  recover'd  from  the  stun 
Of  your  large  bounties.     A  tourney,  is  it 
not? 

[A  senet  heard  faintly. 
Conrad.     The  trumpets  reach  us. 
Ethelbert  (without*).      On  your  peril,  sirs, 
Detain  us  ! 

1st   Voice  (without).  Let  not  the   abbot 


2e?  Voice  (without).     No, 
On  your  lives  ! 

1st    Voice    (without).    Holy   father,   you 

must  not. 

Ethelbert  (without).  Otho  ! 
Otho.  Who  calls  on  Otho  ? 

Ethelbert  (without).  Ethelbert ! 

Otho.  Let  him  come  in. 

Enter  ETHELBERT  leading  in  ERMINIA. 

Thou  cursed  abbot,  why 
Hast  brought  pollution  to  our  holy  rites  ? 
Hast  thou  no  fear  of  hangman,  or  the  fag- 
got ? 

Ludolph.  What  portent  —  what  strange 
prodigy  is  this  ?  60 

Conrad.  Away  ! 
Ethelbert.  You,  Duke  ? 

Erminia.       Albert  has  surely  fail'd  me  ! 
Look   at   the   Emperor's    brow   upon    me 

bent! 

Ethelbert.  A  sad  delay  ! 
Conrad.  Away,  thou  guilty  thing  ! 

Ethelbert.  You    again,    Duke?    Justice, 

most  noble  Otho  ! 
You — go   to   your   sister   there   and  plot 

again, 

A  quick  plot,  swift  as  thought  to  save  your 
heads; 


For  lo  !  the  toils  are  spread  around  your 

den, 

The  world  is  all  agape  to  see  dragg'd  forth 
Two  ugly  monsters. 

Ludolph.  What  means  he,  my  lord  ? 

Conrad.  I  cannot  guess. 
Ethelbert.  Best  ask  your  lady  sister, 

Whether  the  riddle  puzzles  her  beyond     71 
The  power  of  utterance. 

Conrad.  Foul  barbarian,  cease ; 

The  Princess  faints  ! 

Ludolph.     Stab  him  !    O,  sweetest  wife  ! 
[Attendants  bear  q#" AURANTHE. 
Erminia.  Alas  ! 
Ethelbert.          Your  wife  ! 
Ludolph.     Ay,  Satan  !  does  that  yerk  ye  ? 
Ethelbert.  Wife  !  so  soon  ! 
Ludolph.       Ay,  wife  !     Oh,  impudence  ! 
Thou    bitter    mischief !      Venomous    bad 

priest ! 
How  dar'st  thou  lift  those  beetle  brows  at 

me? 

Me  —  the  prince  Ludolph,  in  this  presence 
here,  7g 

Upon  my  marriage  day,  and  scandalize 
My  joys  with  such  opprobrious  surprise  ? 
Wife  !     Why  dost  linger  on  that  syllable, 
As   if  it  were  some   demon's   name   pro- 
nounced 
To  summon  harmful  lightning,  and  make 

yawn 
The  sleepy   thunder?     Hast  no  sense   of 

fear? 

No  ounce  of  man  in  thy  mortality  ? 
Tremble  !  for,  at  my  nod,  the  sharpen'd  axe 
Will  make  thy  bold  tongue  quiver  to  the 

roots, 
Those  gray  lids  wink,  and  thou  not  know 

it,  monk  ! 

Ethelbert.  O,  poor   deceived   Prince  !    I 
pity  thee  !  89 

Great  Otho  !  I  claim  justice  — 

Ludolph.  Thou  shalt  have  't ! 

Thine  arms  from  forth  a  pulpit  of  hot  fire 
Shall  sprawl  distracted  !     O  that  that  dull 

cowl 

Were  some  most  sensitive  portion  of  thy 
life, 


DRAMAS 


ACT  III 


That  I  might  give  it  to  my  hounds  to  tear  ! 

Thy  girdle  some  fine  zealous-pained  nerve 

To  girth   my  saddle  !     And  those  devil's 
beads 

Each  one  a  life,  that  I  might,  every  day, 

Crush  one  with  Vulcan's  hammer  ! 

Otho.  Peace,  my  son  ; 

You  far  outstrip  my  spleen  in  this  affair. 

Let  us  be  calm,  and  hear  the  abbot's  plea 

For  this  intrusion. 

Ludolph.  I  am  silent,  sire. 

Otho.  Conrad,  see  all  depart  not  wanted 
here.  102 

[Exeunt  Knights,  Ladies,  etc. 

Ludolph,  be  calm.  Ethelbert,  peace  awhile. 

This  mystery  demands  an  audience 

Of  a  just  judge,  and  that  will  Otho  be. 
Ludolph.  Why  has  he   time  to   breathe 

another  word  ? 

Otho.  Ludolph,  old   Ethelbert,  be  sure, 
comes  not 

To  beard  us  for  no  cause;   he's  not  the 
man 

To  cry  himself  up  an  ambassador 

Without  credentials. 

Ludolph.  I  '11  chain  up  myself. 

Otho.  Old  abbot,  stand  here  forth.    Lady 

Erminia,  m 

Sit.     And  now,  abbot !  what  have  you  to 
say? 

Our  ear  is  open.     First  we  here  denounce 

Hard  penalties  against  thee,  if 't  be  found 

The  cause  for  which  you  have  disturb'd  us 
here, 

Making  our  bright  hours  muddy,  be  a  thing 

Of  little  moment. 

Ethelbert.  See  this  innocent ! 

Otho  !  thou  father  of  the  people  calPd, 

Is  her  life  nothing  ?     Her  fair  honour  no- 
thing ? 

Her  tears  from  matins  until  even-song     120 

Nothing  ?   Her  burst  heart  nothing  ?   Em- 
peror ! 

Is  this   your  gentle  niece  —  the  simplest 
flower 

Of    the   world's    herbal  —  this    fair    lily 
blanch'd 

Still  with  the  dews  of  piety,  this  meek  lady 


Here  sitting  like  an  angel  newly-shent, 
Who  veils  its  snowy  wings  and  grows  all 

pale,  — 
Is  she  nothing  ? 

Otho.  What  more  to  the  purpose,  abbot  ? 
Ludolph.  Whither  is  he  winding  ? 
Conrad.  No  clue  yet ! 

Ethelbert.  You  have  heard,  my  Liege,  arid 
so,  no  doubt,  all  here,  129 

Foul,  poisonous,  malignant  whisperings; 
Nay   open   speech,    rude   mockery   grown 

common, 

Against  the  spotless  nature  and  clear  fame 
Of  the  princess  Erminia,  your  niece. 
I  have  intruded  here  thus  suddenly, 
Because  1  hold  those  base  weeds,  with  tight 

hand, 

Which  now  disfigure  her  fair  growing  stem, 
Waiting  but  for  your  sign  to  pull  them  up 
By  the  dark  roots,  and  leave  her  palpable, 
To  all  men's  sight,  a  lady  innocent. 
The  ignominy  of  that  whisper'd  tale         140 
About  a  midnight  gallant,  seen  to  climb 
A   window   to    her   chamber    neighbour'd 

near, 

I  will  from  her  turn  off,  and  put  the  load 
On  the  right  shoulders;  on  that  wretch's 

head, 

Who,  by  close    stratagems,  did  save  her- 
self, 

Chiefly  by  shifting  to  this  lady's  room 
A  rope-ladder  for  false  witness. 

Ludolph.  Most  atrocious ! 

Otho.  Ethelbert,  proceed. 
Ethelbert.  With  sad  lips  I  shall: 

For,  in  the  healing  of  one  wound,  I  fear 
To  make  a  greater.     His  young  highness 
here  150 

To-day  was  married. 
Ludolph.  Good. 

Ethelbert.  Would  it  were  good  ! 

Yet  why  do  I  delay  to  spread  abroad 
The  names  of  those  two  vipers,  from  whose 

jaw 
A  deadly  breath  went  forth  to  taint  and 

blast 
This  guileless  lady  ? 

Otho.  Abbot,  speak  their  names. 


SCENE  II 


OTHO   THE   GREAT 


177 


Ethelbert.  A  minute  first.     It  cannot  be 

—  but  may 

I  ask,  great  judge,  if  you  to-day  have  put 
A  letter  by  unread  ? 

Otho.  Does  't  end  in  this  ? 

Conrad.  Out  with  their  names  ! 
Ethelbert.  Bold  sinner,  say  you  so  ? 

Ludolph.  Out,  hideous  monk  ! 
Otho.  Confess,  or  by  the  wheel  — 

Ethelbert.     My  evidence   cannot   be  far 
away;  16  r 

And,  though  it  never  come,  be  on  my  head 
The  crime  of  passing  an  attaint  upon 
The  slanderers  of  this  virgin. 

Ludolph.  Speak  aloud  ! 

Ethelbert.    Auranthe,    and    her  brother 

there. 

Conrad.         Amaze ! 
Ludolph.  Throw  them    from    the    win- 
dows ! 

Otho.  Do  what  you  will ! 
Ludolph.       What  shall  I  do  with  them  ? 
Something  of  quick  dispatch,  for  should  she 

hear, 

My  soft  Auranthe,  her  sweet  mercy  would 
Prevail  against  my  fury.     Damned  priest  ! 
What  swift  death  wilt  thou  die  ?   As  to  the 
lady,  171 

I  touch  her  not. 

Ethelbert.  Illustrious  Otho,  stay  ! 

An  ample  store  of  misery  thou  hast, 
Choke  not  the  granary  of  thy  noble  mind 
With  more  bad  bitter  grain,  too  difficult 
A  cud  for  the  repentance  of  a  man 
Gray-growing.     To  thee  only  I  appeal, 
Not  to  thy  noble  son,  whose  yeasting  youth 
Will  clear  itself,  and  crystal  turn  again. 
A  young  man's  heart,  by  Heaven's  bless- 
ing, is  X8o 
A  wide  world,  where  a  thousand  new-born 

hopes 

Empurple  fresh  the  melancholy  blood  : 
But  an  old  man's  is  narrow,  tenantless 
Of  hopes,  and  stuff  'd  with  many  memories, 
Which,   being    pleasant,   ease    the    heavy 

pulse  — 

Painful,  clog  up  and  stagnate.    Weigh  this 
matter 


Even  as  a  miser  balances  his  coin; 

And,  in  the  name  of  mercy,  give  command 

That  your  knight  Albert  be  brought  here 

before  you.  189 

He  will  expound  this  riddle;  he  will  show 
A  noon-day  proof  of  bad  Auranthe's  guilt. 
Otho.  Let  Albert  straight  be  summon'd. 
[Exit  one  of  the  Nobles. 
Ludolph.  Impossible  ! 

I    cannot    doubt  —  I   will    not  —  no  —  to 

doubt 

Is  to  be  ashes  !  —  wither'd  up  to  death  ! 
Otho.  My  gentle  Ludolph,  harbour  not  a 

fear; 
You  do  yourself  much  wrong. 

Ludolph.  O,  wretched  dolt ! 

Now,  when  my  foot  is  almost  on  thy  neck, 
Wilt  thou  infuriate  me?  Proof!  Thou  fool! 
Why  wilt  thou  tease  impossibility  199 

With  such  a  thick-skidl'd  persevering  suit  ? 
Fanatic  obstinacy  !     Prodigy  ! 
Monster    of    folly !     Ghost    of    a    turn'd 

brain  ! 
You  puzzle  me,  —  you  haunt  me,  —  when  I 

dream 

Of  you  my  brain  will  split  !     Bold  sor- 
cerer ! 
Juggler !     May  I  come  near  you  ?    On  my 

soul 
I  know   not   whether  to    pity,   curse,   or 

laugh. 

Enter  ALBERT,  and  the  Nobleman. 

Here,   Albert,  this   old  phantom   wants  a 

proof  ! 
Give  him  his  proof  !      A  camel's  load  of 

proofs  ! 

Otho.  Albert,  I  speak  to  you  as  a  man 
Whose  words  once  utter'd  pass  like  current 

gold;  210 

And  therefore  fit  to  calmly  put  a  close 
To  this  brief  tempest.     Do  you  stand  pos- 


Of  any  proof  against  the  honourableness 
Of  Lady  Auranthe,  our  new-spoused  daugh- 
ter? 

Albert.  You  chill  me  with  astonishment. 
How 's  this  ? 


DRAMAS 


ACT  III 


My  liege,  what  proof  should  I  have  'gainst 

a  fame 
Impossible  of  slur  ? 

[OTHO  rises. 

Erminia.  O  wickedness  ! 

Ethelbert.  Deluded  monarch,  't  is  a  cruel 
lie.  218 

Otho.  Peace,  rebel-priest ! 
Conrad.  Insult  beyond  credence  ! 

Erminia.  Almost  a  dream  ! 
Ludolph.  We  have  awaked  from  ! 

A  foolish  dream  that  from  my  brow  hath 

wrung 

A  wrathful  dew.     O  folly  !  why  did  I 
So  act  the  lion  with  this  silly  gnat? 
Let  them  depart.     Lady  Erminia  ! 
I  ever  grieved  for  you,  as  who  did  not  ? 
But  now  you  have,  with  such  a  brazen 

front, 

So  most  maliciously,  so  madly  striven 
To  dazzle  the  soft  moon,  when  tenderest 

clouds 

Should  be  unloop'd  around  to  curtain  her; 
I  leave  you  to  the  desert  of  the  world     230 
Almost  with  pleasure.     Let  them  be   set 

free 

For  me  !     I  take  no  personal  revenge 
More  than  against  a  nightmare,  which  a 

man 

Forgets  in  the  new  dawn.    [Exit  LUDOLPH. 
Otho.  Still  in  extremes  !     No,  they  must 

not  be  loose. 
Ethelbert.  Albert,  I  must  suspect  thee  of 

a  crime 
So  fiendish  — 

Otho.     Fear'st  thou  not  my  fury,  monk  ? 
Conrad,  be  they  in  your  safe  custody 
Till  we  determine  some  fit  punishment.  240 
It  is  so  mad  a  deed,  I  must  reflect 
And   question   them  in  private;    for  per- 
haps, 

By  patient  scrutiny,  we  may  discover 
Whether  they  merit  death,  or  should  be 

placed 
In  eare  of  the  physicians. 

[Exeunt  OTHO   and   Nobles,  ALBERT 
following. 


Conrad.  My  guards,  ho  ! 
Erminia.  Albert,  wilt  thou  follow  there  ? 
Wilt  thou  creep  dastardly  behind  his  back, 
And   shrink  away  from  a  weak  woman's 

eye? 
Turn,  thou  court  -  Janus  !   thou  f  orgett'st 

thyself; 

Here    is    the    duke,    waiting    with    open 
arms, 

Enter  Guards. 

To   thank  thee;    here    congratulate   each 

other;  250 

Wring  hands;   embrace;   and  swear  how 

lucky  't  was 
That  I,  by  happy  chance,  hit  the  right 

man 

Of  all  the  world  to  trust  in. 
Albert.  Trust !  to  me  ! 

Conrad  (aside).  He  is  the  sole  one  in  this 

mystery. 
Erminia.  Well,  I  give  up,  and  save  my 

prayers  for  Heaven  ! 
You,  who  could  do  this  deed,  would  ne'er 

relent, 

Though,  at  my  words,  the  hollow  prison- 
vaults 
Would  groan  for  pity. 

Conrad.  Manacle  them  both  ! 

Ethelbert.  I  know  it  —  it  must  be  —  I 
see  it  all !  259 

Albert,  thou  art  the  minion  ! 

Erminia.  Ah  !  too  plain  — 

Conrad.  Silence  !    Gag  up  their  mouths  ! 

I  cannot  bear 

More  of  this  brawling.     That  the  Emperor 
Had  placed  you  in  some  other  custody  ! 
Bring  them  away. 

lExeunt  all  but  ALBERT. 
Albert.  Though   my  name   perish   from 

the  book  of  honour, 
Almost  before  the  recent  ink  is  dry, 
And  be  no  more  remember' d  after  death, 
Than  any  drummer's  in  the  muster-roll; 
Yet  shall  I  season  high  my  sudden  fall    269 
With  triumph  o'er  that  evil-witted  duke  ! 
He  shall  feel  what  it  is  to  have  the  hand 
Of  a  man  drowning,  on  his  hateful  throat. 


SCENE  I 


OTHO   THE   GREAT 


179 


Enter  GERSA  and  SIGIFRED. 
Gersa.  What   discord   is   at  ferment  in 

this  house  ? 
Sigifred.  We  are  without  conjecture;  not 

a  soul 
We  met  could  answer  any  certainty. 

Gersa.  Young  Ludolph,  like  a  fiery  ar- 
row, shot 
By  us. 

Sigifred.    The    Emperor,    with    cross'd 

arms,  in  thought. 
Gersa.  In  one  room  music,  in  another 

sadness, 
Perplexity  every  where  ! 

Albert.  A  trifle  more  ! 

Follow  ;  your  presences  will  much  avail  280 
To  tune  our  jarred  spirits.     I  '11  explain. 

[Exeunt. 

ACT   IV 

SCENE  I.  —  AURANTHE'S  Apartment 
ATTRANTHE  and  CONRAD  discovered. 

Conrad.  Well,  well,  I  know  what  ugly 

jeopardy 

We  are  caged  in;  you  need  not  pester  that 
Into  my  ears.     Pr'ythee,  let  me  be  spared 
A  foolish  tongue,  that  I  may  bethink  me 
Of  remedies  with  some  deliberation. 
You  cannot   doubt    but  't  is    in  Albert's 

power 
To  crush  or  save  us  ? 

Auranthe.  No,  I  cannot  doubt. 

He  has,  assure  yourself,  by  some  strange 

means, 

My  secret;  which  I  ever  hid  from  him,      9 
Knowing  his  mawkish  honesty. 

Conrad.  Cursed  slave  ! 

Auranthe.  Ay,  I  could  almost  curse  him 

now  myself. 

Wretched  impediment  !     Evil  genius  ! 
A  glue  upon  my  wings,  that  cannot  spread, 
When  they  should  span  the  provinces  !     A 

snake, 
A  scorpion,  sprawling  on  the  first  gold 

step, 
Conducting  to  the  throne,  high  canopied. 


Conrad.  You  would  not  hear  my  counsel, 
when  his  life 

Might  have  been  trodden  out,  all  sure  and 
hush'd; 

Now  the  dull  animal  forsooth  must  be 

Intreated,  managed  !     When  can  you  con- 
trive 20 

The  interview  he  demands  ? 

Auranthe.  As  speedily 

It  must  be  done  as  my  bribed  woman  can 

Unseen  conduct  him  to  me;  but  I  fear 

'T  will  be  impossible,  while  the  broad  day 

Comes  through  the  panes  with  persecuting 
glare. 

Methinks,  if  't  now  were  night  I  could  in- 
trigue 

With  darkness,  bring  the  stars  to  second  me, 

And  settle  all  this  trouble. 

Conrad.  Nonsense  !     Child ! 

See  him  immediately;  why  not  now? 
Auranthe.  Do  you  forget  that  even  the 
senseless  door-posts  30 

Are  on  the  watch  and  gape  through  all  the 
house  ? 

How  many  whisperers  there  are  about, 

Hungry  for  evidence  to  ruin  me: 

Men  I  have  spurn'd,  and  women  I  have 
taunted  ? 

Besides,  the  foolish  prince  sends,  minute 
whiles, 

His  pages  —  so  they  tell  me  —  to  inquire 

After  my  health,  intreating,  if  I  please, 

To  see  me. 

Conrad.  Well,  suppose  this  Albert  here; 

What  is  your  power  with  him  ? 

Auranthe.  He  should  be 

My  echo,  my  taught  parrot !  but  I  fear   40 

He  will  be  cur  enough  to  bark  at  me ; 

Have  his  own  say;  read  me  some  silly  creed 

'Bout  shame  and  pity. 

Conrad.  What  will  you  do  then  ? 

Auranthe.  What  I  shall  do,  I  know  not; 
what  I  would 

Cannot  be  done;    for  see,  this  chamber- 
floor 

Will  not  yield   to  the  pick-axe  and  the 
spade,  — 

Here  is  no  quiet  depth  of  hollow  ground. 


i8o 


DRAMAS 


ACT  IV 


Conrad.  Sister,  you  have  grown  sensible 

and  wise, 

Seconding,  ere  I  speak  it,  what  is  now,     49 
I  hope,  resolved  between  us. 

Auranthe.  Say,  what  is  't  ? 

Conrad.  You  need  not  be  his  sexton  too; 

a  man 
May  carry  that  with  him  shall  make  him 

die 
Elsewhere,  —  give  that  to  him;    pretend 

the  while 

You  will  to-morrow  succumb  to  his  wishes, 
Be  what  they  may,  and  send  him  from  the 

Castle 

On  some  fool's  errand:  let  his  latest  groan 
Frighten  the  wolves  ! 

Auranthe.  Alas  !  he  must  not  die  ! 

Conrad.  Would  you  were  both  hearsed 

up  in  stifling  lead  ! 
Detested  — 

Auranthe.  Conrad,  hold  !    I   would  not 
bear  59 

The  little  thunder  of  your  fretful  tongue, 
Tho'  I  alone  were  taken  in  these  toils, 
And  you  could  free  me;  but  remember, 

sir, 

You  live  alone  in  my  security: 
So  keep  your  wits  at  work,  for  your  own 


Not  mine,  and  be  more  mannerly. 

Conrad.  Thou  wasp ! 

If  my  domains  were  emptied  of  these  folk, 
And  I  had  thee  to  starve  — 

Auranthe.  O,  marvellous  ! 

But   Conrad,  now  be   gone;    the  Host  is 

look'd  for; 

Cringe  to  the  Emperor,  entertain  the  Lords, 
And,  do  ye  mind,  above  all  things,  pro- 
claim 70 
My  sickness,  with  a  brother's  sadden'd  eye, 
Condoling  with  Prince  Ludolph.  In  fit 

time 
Return  to  me. 

Conrad.  I  leave  you  to  your  thoughts. 

[Exit. 
Auranthe    (sola).    Down,    down,    proud 

temper  !  down,  Auranthe's  pride  ! 
Why  do  I  anger  him  when  I  should  kneel  ? 


Conrad  !  Albert  !  help  !  help  !     What  can 
I  do? 

0  wretched  woman  !    lost,  wreck'd,  swal- 

low'd  up, 

Accursed,  blasted  !    O,  thou  golden  Crown, 
Orbing  along  the  serene  firmament  79 

Of  a  wide  empire,  like  a  glowing  moon; 
And  thou,  bright  sceptre  !  lustrous  in  my 

eyes,  — 

There  —  as  the  fabled  fair  Hesperian  tree, 
Bearing  a  fruit  more  precious  !   graceful 

thing, 

Delicate,  godlike,  magic  !  must  I  leave 
Thee  to  melt  in  the  visionary  air, 
Ere,  by  one  grasp,  this  common  hand  is 

made 

Imperial  ?     I  do  not  know  the  time 
When  I  have  wept  for  sorrow;  but  me- 

thinks  88 

1  could  now  sit  upon  the  ground,  and  shed 
Tears,  tears  of  misery  !    O,  the  heavy  day  ! 
How  shall  I  bear  my  life  till  Albert  comes  ? 
Ludolph  !     Erminia  !      Proofs  !     O  heavy 

day! 
Bring  me   some  mourning  weeds,  that  I 

may  'tire 

Myself,  as  fits  one  wailing  her  own  death: 
Cut  off  these   curls,  and  brand  this  lily 

hand, 
And  throw  these  jewels  from  my  loathing 

sight,  — 

Fetch  me  a  missal,  and  a  string  of  beads,  — 
A  cup  of  bitter'd  water,  and  a  crust,  — 
I  will  confess,  O  holy  Abbot !  —  How  !     99 
What  is  this  ?     Auranthe  !  thou  fool,  dolt, 
Whimpering  idiot !  up  !  up  !  and  quell ! 
I  am  safe  !     Coward  !  why  am  I  in  fear  ? 
Albert  !  he  cannot  stickle,  chew  the  cud 
In  such  a  fine  extreme,  —  impossible  ! 
Who  knocks  ? 

[Goes  to  the  door,  listens,  and  opens  it. 

Enter  ALBERT. 

Albert,  I  have  been  waiting  for  you  here 
With  such  an  aching  heart,  such  swooning 

throbs 

On  my  poor  brain,  such  cruel  —  cruel  sor- 
row, 


SCENE  I 


OTHO   THE   GREAT 


181 


That  I  should  claim  your  pity  !     Art  not 

well  ?  109 

Albert.  Yes,  lady,  well. 

Auranthe.  You  look  not  so,  alas  ! 

But  pale,  as  if  you  brought  some  heavy 

news. 
Albert.  You  know  full  well  what  makes 

me  look  so  pale. 
Auranthe.  No !     Do  I  ?     Surely  I   am 

still  to  learn 

Some  horror;  all  I  know,  this  present,  is 
I  am  near  hustled  to  a  dangerous  gulf, 
Which  you  can  save  me  from,  —  and  there- 
fore safe, 
So  trusting  in  thy  love;  that  should  not 

make 
Thee  pale,  my  Albert. 

Albert.  It  doth  make  me  freeze. 

Auranthe.  Why  should  it,  love  ? 
Albert.          You  should  not  ask  me  that, 
But  make  your  own  heart  monitor,  and  save 
Me  the  great  pain  of  telling.     You  must 
know.  121 

Auranthe.  Something  has  vext  you,  Al- 
bert.    There  are  times 
When   simplest   things   put   on   a  sombre 

cast; 

A  melancholy  mood  will  haunt  a  man, 
Until  most  easy  matters  take  the  shape 
Of  unachievable  tasks;  small  rivulets 
Then  seem  impassable. 

Albert.  Do  not  cheat  yourself 

With  hope  that  gloss  of  words,  or  suppliant 

action, 

Or    tears,  or    ravings,   or  self-threaten'd 
death,  I29 

Can  alter  my  resolve. 

Auranthe.  You  make  me  tremble; 

Not  so  much  at  your  threats,  as  at  your 

voice, 

Untuned,  and  harsh,  and  barren  of  all  love. 
Albert.  You   suffocate  me  !      Stop  this 

devil's  parley, 

And  listen  to  me;  know  me  once  for  all. 
Auranthe.  I  thought  I  did.     Alas  !     I 

am  deceived. 

Albert.  No,  you  are  not  deceived.     You 
took  me  for 


A  man  detesting  all  inhuman  crime ; 

And  therefore  kept  from  me  your  demon's 

plot 

Against  Erminia.     Silent?     Be  so  still; 
For  ever  !     Speak  no  more;  but  hear  my 
words,  140 

Thy  fate.     Your  safety  I  have  bought  to- 
day 

By  blazoning  a  lie,  which  in  the  dawn 
I  '11  expiate  with  truth. 

Auranthe.  O  cruel  traitor  ! 

Albert.  For  I  would  not  set  eyes  upon 

thy  shame; 
I  would  not  see  thee  dragg'd  to  death  by 

the  hair, 

Penanced,  and  taunted  on  a  scaffolding  ! 
To-night,  upon  the  skirts  of  the  blind  wood 
That  blackens  northward  of  these  horrid 

towers, 

I  wait  for  you  with  horses.     Choose  your 
fate.  149 

Farewell ! 

Auranthe.  Albert,  you  jest;    I  'm    sure 

you  must. 

You,  an  ambitious  Soldier  !     I,  a  Queen, 
One  who  could  say,  —  here,  rule  these  Pro- 
vinces ! 

Take  tribute  from  those  cities  for  thyself  ! 
Empty  these  armouries,  these  treasuries, 
Muster  thy  warlike  thousands  at  a  nod  ! 
Go  !     Conquer  Italy  ! 

Albert.  Auranthe,  you  have  made 

The  whole  world  chaff  to  me.     Your  doom 

is  fix'd. 

Auranthe.  Out,  villain  !  dastard  ! 
Albert.  Look  there  to  the  door  ! 

Who  is  it  ? 

Auranthe.     Conrad,  traitor  ! 

Albert.  Let  him  in. 

Enter  CONRAD. 

Do  not  affect  amazement,  hypocrite,         160 
At  seeing  me  in  this  chamber. 

Conrad.  Auranthe  ? 

Albert.  Talk  not  with  eyes,  but  speak 

your  curses  out 

Against  me,  who  would  sooner  crush  and 
grind 


182 


DRAMAS 


ACT  IV 


A  brace  of  toads,  than  league  with  them 

t'  oppress 

An  innocent  lady,  gull  an  Emperor, 
More  generous  to  me  than  autumn  sun 
To  ripening  harvests. 

Auranihe.  No  more  insult,  sir  ! 

Albert.  Ay,  clutch  your   scabbard;   but, 

for  prudence  sake, 

Draw  not  the  sword;  't  would  make  an  up- 
roar, Duke, 

You  would  not  hear  the  end  of.     At  night- 
fall 170 
Your  lady  sister,  if  I  guess  aright, 
Will  leave  this  busy  castle.     You  had  best 
Take  farewell  too  of  worldly  vanities. 
Conrad.  Vassal ! 
Albert.      To-morrow,  when  the  Emperor 

sends 

For  loving  Conrad,  see  you  fawn  on  him. 
Good  even  ! 

Auranihe.  You  '11  be  seen  ! 
Albert.  See  the  coast  clear  then. 

Auranihe  (as  he  goes).  Remorseless  Al- 
bert !     Cruel,  cruel  wretch  ! 

[She  lets  him  out. 

Conrad.  So,  we  must  lick  the  dust  ? 
Auranthe.  I  follow  him. 

Conrad.  How  ?    Where  ?     The  plan  of 

your  escape  ? 

Auranihe.  He  waits 

For  me  with  horses  by  the  forest-side,     180 
Northward. 

Conrad.  Good,  good  !  he  dies.     You  go, 

say  you  ? 

Auranthe.  Perforce. 
Conrad.  Be  speedy,  darkness!    Till  that 

comes, 
Fiends  keep  you  company  !  [Exit. 

Auranthe.        And  you  !     And  you  ! 
And  all  men  !     Vanish  ! 

[Retires  to  an  inner  apartment. 

SCENE  II.  —  An  Apartment  in  the  Castle 

Enter  LUDOLPH  and  a  Page. 
Page.  Still  very  sick,  my  lord;  but  now 

I  went, 
Knowing  my  duty  to  so  good  a  Prince; 


And  there  her  women,  in  a  mournful  throng, 
Stood  in  the  passage  whispering;  if  any 
Moved,  't  was  with  careful  steps,  and  hush'd 

as  death: 
They  bade  me  stop. 

Ludolph.  Good  fellow,  once  again 

Make  soft  inquiry;  pr'ythee,  be  not  stay'd 
By  any  hindrance,  but  with  gentlest  force 
Break  through  her  weeping  servants,  till 

thou  com'st 
E'en  to  her  chamber  door,  and  there,  fair 

boy  —  10 

If  with  thy  mother's  milk  thou  hast  suck'd 

in 

Any  divine  eloquence  —  woo  her  ears 
With  plaints  for  me,  more  tender  than  the 

voice 
Of  dying  Echo,  echoed. 

Page.  Kindest  master  ! 

To  know  thee  sad  thus,  will   unloose  my 

tongue 
In  mournful  syllables.     Let  but  my  words 

reach 
Her  ears,  and  she  shall  take  them  coupled 

with 

Moans  from  my  heart,  and  sighs  not  coun- 
terfeit. 

May  I  speed  better  !  [Exit  Page. 

Ludolph  (solus).     Auranthe  !     My  Life  ! 

Long  have  I  loved  thee,  yet  till  now  not 

loved:  20 

Remembering,  as  I  do,  hard-hearted  times 
When  I  had  heard  e'en  of  thy  death  per- 
haps, 

And  thoughtless,  suffer'd  thee  to  pass  alone 
Into  Elysium  !  —  now  I  follow  thee 
A  substance  or  a  shadow,  wheresoe'er 
Thou  leadest  me,  —  whether  thy  white  feet 

press, 
With  pleasant  weight,  the  amorous-aching 

earth, 

Or  thro'  the  air  thou  pioneerest  me, 
A  shade  !     Yet  sadly  I  predestinate  ! 
O  unbenignest  Love,  why  wilt  thou  let      30 
Darkness  steal  out  upon  the  sleepy  world 
So  wearily;  as  if  night's  chariot- wheels 
Were   clogg'd   in  some   thick  cloud  ?     O, 

changeful  Love, 


SCENE  II 


OTHO   THE   GREAT 


183 


Let  not  her  steeds  with  drowsy-footed  pace 
Pass  the  high  stars,  before  sweet  embas- 

sage 
Comes  from   the  pillow'd  beauty  of  that 

fair 

Completion  of  all  delicate  Nature's  wit  ! 
Pout   her   faint    lips    anew   with    rubious 

health; 
And,   with    thine   infant   fingers,   lift    the 

fringe 
Of  her  sick  eyelids;  that  those  eyes  may 

glow  40 

With  wooing  light  upon  me,  ere  the  Morn 
Peers    with    disrelish,   gray,   barren,    and 

cold! 

Enter  GERSA  and  Courtiers. 

Otho  calls  me  his  Lion  —  should  I  blush 
To  be  so  tamed  ?  so  — 

Gersa.  Do  me  the  courtesy, 

Gentlemen,  to  pass  on. 

1st  Knight.  We  are  your  servants. 

[Exeunt  Courtiers. 

Ludolph.  It  seems  then,  Sir,   you  have 

found  out  the  man 
You  would  confer  with;  —  me  ? 

Gersa.  If  I  break  not 

Too  much  upon  your  thoughtful  mood,  I 

will 
Claim  a  brief  while  your  patience. 

Ludolph.  For  what  cause 

Soe'er,  I  shall  be  honour'd. 

Gersa.  I  not  less. 

Ludolph.  What  may  it  be?     No  trifle 

can  take  place  51 

Of  such  deliberate  prologue,  serious  'hav- 

iour. 

But,  be  it  what  it  may,  I  cannot  fail 
To  listen  with  no  common  interest; 
For  though  so   new  your   presence   is   to 

me, 

I  have  a  soldier's  friendship  for  your  fame. 
Please  you  explain. 

Gersa.  As  thus:  — for,  pardon  me, 

I  cannot  in  plain  terms  grossly  assault 
A  noble  nature;  and  would  faintly  sketch 
What  your  quick  apprehension  will  fill  up; 
So  finely  I  esteem  you. 


Ludolph.  I  attend.  61 

Gersa.  Your  generous  father,  most  illus- 
trious Otho, 

Sits  in  the  banquet-room  among  his  chiefs; 
His  wine  is  bitter,  for  you  are  not  there ; 
His  eyes  are  fix'd  still  on  the  open  doors, 
And  ev'ry  passer  in  he  frowns  upon, 
Seeing  no  Ludolph  comes. 

Ludolph.  I  do  neglect  — 

Gersa.  And  for  your  absence  may  I  guess 

the  cause  ? 

Ludolph.    Stay   there  !      No  —  guess  ? 
More  princely  you  must  be  69 

Than  to  make  guesses  at  me.  'T  is  enough. 
I  'm  sorry  I  can  hear  no  more. 

Gersa.  And  I 

As  grieved  to  force  it  on  you  so  abrupt; 
Yet,  one  day,  you  must  know  a  grief,  whose 

sting 
Will  sharpen    more   the    longer   't  is  con- 

ceal'd. 
Ludolph.  Say   it  at  once,   sir !    dead  — 

dead  —  is  she  dead  ? 
Gersa.  Mine  is  a  cruel  task:  she  is  not 

dead, 

And  would,  for  your  sake,  she  were  inno- 
cent— 
Ludolph.  Thou  liest !     Thou  amazest  me 

beyond 
All  scope  of  thought,  convulsest  my  heart's 

blood  79 

To  deadly  churning  !  Gersa,  you  are  young, 
As  I  am;  let  me  observe  you,  face  to  face: 
Not  gray-brow'd  like  the  poisonous  Ethel- 

bert, 

No  rheumed  eyes,  no  furrowing  of  age, 
No  wrinkles,  where  all  vices  nestle  in 
Like  crannied  vermin  —  no  !  but  fresh  and 

young, 
And  hopeful  featured.     Ha !   by  Heaven 

you  weep 
Tears,  human  tears  !     Do  you  repent  you 

then 
Of  a  cursed  torturer's  office  ?  Why  shouldst 

join  — 
Tell  me,  the  league  of  devils  ?    Confess  — 

confess  — 
The  Lie  ! 


i84 


DRAMAS 


ACT  V 


Gersa.    Lie  !  —  but   begone  all   ceremo- 
nious points  90 

Of  honour  battailous  !     I  could  not  turn 

My  wrath  against  thee  for  the  orbed  world. 
Ludolph.  Your  wrath,  weak  boy  ?  Trem- 
ble at  mine,  unless 

Retraction  follow  close  upon  the  heels 

Of  that  late  stounding  insult  !    Why  has 
my  sword 

Not   done   already   a   sheer  judgment  on 
thee? 

Despair,  or   eat   thy  words !     Why,  thou 
wast  nigh 

Whimpering  away  my  reason !     Hark  ye, 
Sir, 

It  is  no  secret,  that  Erminia, 

Erminia,  Sir,  was  hidden  in  your  tent;     100 

O  bless'd  asylum  !     Comfortable  home  ! 

Begone  !     I  pity  thee ;   thou  art  a  gull, 

Erminia's  last  new  puppet ! 

Gersa.  Furious  fire  ! 

Thou  mak'st  me  boil  as  hot  as  thou  canst 
flame  ! 

And  in  thy  teeth  I  give  thee  back  the  lie  ! 

Thou  liest !     Thou,   Auranthe's  fool !     A 

wittol  — 

Ludolph.    Look  !    look    at    this    bright 
sword: 

There  is  no  part  of  it,  to  the  very  hilt, 

But  shall  indulge  itself  about  thine  heart ! 

Draw  !  but  remember  thou  must  cower  thy 
plumes,  no 

As  yesterday  the  Arab  made  thee  stoop  — 
Gersa.    Patience !     Not  here;   I  would 
not  spill  thy  blood 

Here,   underneath   this   roof  where   Otho 
breathes,  — 

Thy  father,  —  almost  mine. 

Ludolph.  O  faltering  coward  ! 

Re-enter  PAGE. 
Stay,  stay;  here  is  one  I  have  half  a  word 

with. 

Well  —  What  ails  thee,  child  ? 
Page.  My  lord  ! 

Ludolph.  Good  fellow! 

Page.  They  are  fled  ! 
Ludolph.    '          They  !     Who  ? 


Page.  When  anxiously 

I  hasten'd  back,  your  grieving  messenger, 
I  found  the  stairs  all  dark,  the  lamps  ex- 
tinct, 

And  not  a  foot  or  whisper  to  be  heard.    120 
I  thought  her  dead,  and  on  the  lowest  step 
Sat  listening;  when  presently  came  by 
Two  muffled  up,  —  one  sighing  heavily, 
The  other  cursing  low,  whose  voice  I  knew 
For  the  Duke  Conrad's.     Close  I  follow'd 

them 
Thro'  the  dark  ways  they  chose  to  the  open 

air; 

And,  as  I  follow'd,  heard  my  lady  speak. 
Ludolph.  Thy  life  answers  the  truth  ! 
Page.  The  chamber  's  empty  ! 

Ludolph.  As  I  will  be  of  mercy  !     So,  at 
last,  129 

This  nail  is  in  my  temples  ! 

Gersa.  Be  calm  in  this. 

Ludolph.  I  am. 

Gersa.  And  Albert  too  has  disappear'd; 
Ere  I  met  you,  I  sought  him  every  where; 
You  would  not  hearken. 

Ludolph.       Which  way  went  they,  boy  ? 
Gersa.  1 11  hunt  with  you. 
Ludolph.         No,  no,  no.     My  senses  are 
Still  whole.     I  have  survived.     My  arm  is 

strong  — 
My  appetite  sharp  —  for  revenge  !   I  '11  no 

sharer 

In  my  feast;  my  injury  is  all  my  own, 
And  so  is  my  revenge,  my  lawful  chat- 
tels! 
Terrier,   ferret   them   out !     Burn  —  burn 

the  witch ! 

Trace  me  their  footsteps  !     Away  !          140 

[Exeunt. 

ACT   V 

SCENE  I.  —  A  part  of  the  Forest 
Enter  CONRAD  and  AURANTHE. 

Auranthe.   Go    no   further;    not   a  step 

more.     Thou  art 

A  master-plague  in  the  midst  of  miseries. 
Go,  —  I  fear  thee  !    I  tremble  every  limb, 


SCENE  II 


OTHO   THE   GREAT 


Who  never  shook  before.     There  's  moody 

death 

In  thy  resolved  looks  !     Yes,  I  could  kneel 
To   pray   thee    far    away !     Conrad,    go ! 

go  !  — 

There  !  yonder  underneath  the  boughs  I  see 
Our  horses  ! 

Conrad.  Ay,  and  the  man. 
Auranthe.  Yes,  he  is  there. 

Go,  go,  —  no  blood  !  no  blood  !  —  go,  gen- 
tle Conrad  ! 
Conrad.  Farewell ! 

A  uranthe.  Farewell !     For  this   Heaven 
pardon  you  !  10 

[Exit  AURANTHE. 

Conrad.  If  he   survive   one   hour,  then 

may  I  die 

In  unimagined  tortures,  or  breathe  through 
A  long  life  in  the  foulest  sink  o'  the  world  ! 
He  dies  !     'T  is  well  she  do  not  advertise 
The  caitiff  of  the  cold  steel  at  his  back. 

[Exit  CONRAD. 

Enter  LUDOLPH  and  Page. 
Ludolph.  Miss'd  the  way,  boy  ?    Say  not 

that  on  your  peril ! 
Page.    Indeed,   indeed    I   cannot   trace 

them  further. 

Ludolph.  Must  I  stop  here  ?     Here  soli- 
tary die  ? 

Stifled  beneath  the  thick  oppressive  shade 

Of  these  dull  boughs,  —  this  oven  of  dark 
thickets,  —  20 

Silent,  —  without  revenge  ?  —  pshaw  !  — 
bitter  end,  — 

A  bitter  death,  —  a  suffocating  death,  — 

A  gnawing  —  silent  —  deadly,  quiet  death  ! 

Escaped  ?  —  fled  ?  —  vanish'd  ?  melted  into 
air? 

She  's  gone  !     I  cannot  clutch  her  !  no  re- 
venge ! 

A  muffled  death,  ensnared  in  horrid  silence  ! 

Suck'd  to  my  grave  amid  a  dreamy  calm  ! 

O,  where  is  that  illustrious  noise  of  war, 

To   smother   up   this   sound  of  labouring 
breath,  29 

This  rustle  of  the  trees  ! 

f  AURANTHE  shrieks  at  a  distance. 


Page.  My  lord,  a  noise  ! 

This  way  —  hark  ! 

Ludolph.   Yes,  yes  !   A  hope  !   A  music  ! 
A  glorious  clamour  !     How  I  live  again  ! 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.  —  Another  part  of  the  Forest 

Enter  ALBERT  (wounded). 

Albert.  O  !  for  enough  life  to  support  me 

on 
To  Otho's  feet ! 

Enter  LUDOLPH. 

Ludolph.       Thrice  villanous,  stay  there  ! 
Tell  me  where  that  detested  woman  is, 
Or  this  is  through  thee  ! 

Albert.  My  good  Prince,  with  me 

The  sword  has  done  its  worst;  not  without 

worst 

Done  to  another,  —  Conrad  has  it  home  — 
I  see  you  know  it  all  — 

Ludolph.  Where  is  his  sister  ? 

Enter  AURANTHE. 

Auranthe.  Albert ! 

Ludolph.  Ha!     There!  there!  — He  is 

the  paramour  !  — 

There  —  hug  him  —  dying  !    O,  thou  inno- 
cence, 

Shrine  him  and    comfort  him  at  his  last 

gasp,  10 

Kiss  down  his  eyelids  !     Was  he  not  thy 

love? 

Wilt  thou  forsake  him  at  his  latest  hour  ? 
Keep  fearful  and  aloof  from  his  last  gaze, 
His  most  uneasy  moments,  when  cold  death 
Stands  with  the  door  ajar  to  let  him  in  ? 
Albert.  O  that  that  door  with  hollow  slam 

would  close 

Upon  me  sudden,  for  I  cannot  meet, 
In  all  the  unknown  chambers  of  the  dead, 
Such  horrors  — 

Ludolph.  Auranthe  !  what  can  he  mean  ? 
What  horrors  ?     Is  it  not  a  joyous  time  ? 
Am  I  not  married  to  a  paragon  21 

'  Of  personal  beauty  and  untainted  soul  ? ' 
A  blushing  fair-eyed  purity  ?     A  sylph, 


i86 


DRAMAS 


ACT  V 


Whose  snowy  timid  hand  has  never  sinn'd 
Beyond  a  flower  pluck'd,  white  as  itself  ? 
Albert,  you  do  insult  my  bride  —  your  mis- 


To  talk  of  horrors  on  our  wedding-night  ! 
Albert.  Alas  !  poor  Prince,  I  would  you 

knew  my  heart ! 
'T  is  not  so  guilty  — 

Ludolph.        Hear,  he  pleads  not  guilty  ! 
You  are  not  ?  or,  if  so,  what  matters  it  ? 
You  have  escaped  me,  free   as  the   dusk 

air,  31 

Hid  in  the  forest,  safe  from  my  revenge; 
I  cannot  catch  you  !     You  should  laugh  at 

me, 
Poor  cheated  Ludolph !     Make  the  forest 

hiss 
With  jeers  at  me  !     You  tremble ;  faint  at 

once, 

You  will  come  to  again.     O  cockatrice, 
I  have  you  !     Whither  wander  those  fair 


To  entice  the  Devil  to  your  help,  that  he 
May  change  you  to  a  spider,  so  to  crawl 
Into  some  cranny  to  escape  my  wrath  ?    40 
Albert.  Sometimes  the  counsel  of  a  dy- 
ing man 
Doth  operate  quietly  when  his  breath  is 

gone: 
Disjoin    those    hands  —  part  —  part  —  do 

not  destroy 

Each  other  —  forget  her  !  —  Our  miseries 
Are  equal  shared,  and  mercy  is  — 

Ludolph.  A  boon 

When  one  can  compass  it.     Auranthe,  try 
Your  oratory;  your  breath  is  not  so  hitch'd. 
Ay,  stare  for  help  ! 

[ALBERT  groans  and  dies. 
There  goes  a  spotted  soul 
Howling  in  vain  along  the  hollow  night ! 
Hear  him  !     He  calls  you  —  sweet  Auran- 
the, come !  5° 
Auranthe.  Kill  me  ! 

Ludolph.  No !     What,   upon   our    mar- 
riage-night ! 

The  earth  would  shudder  at  so  foul  a  deed  ! 
A  fair  bride  !     A  sweet  bride  !     An  inno- 
cent bride  ! 


No  !  we  must  revel  it,  as  't  is  in  use 
In  times  of  delicate  brilliant  ceremony: 
Come,  let  me  lead  you  to  our  halls  again  ! 
Nay,    linger    not ;     make    no    resistance, 

sweet;  — 
Will  you  ?     Ah,  wretch,  thou  canst  not,  for 

I  have 
The   strength  of   twenty  lions   'gainst    a 

lamb! 
Now  —  one    adieu    for    Albert !  —  Come 

away !  60 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.  —  An  inner  Court  of  the 
Castle 

Enter  SIGIFRED,  GONFRED,  and  THEODORE, 
meeting. 

1st  Knight.  Was  ever  such  a  night  ? 

Sigifred.  What  horrors  more  ? 

Things   unbelieved    one    hour,  so  strange 

they  are, 
The  next  hour  stamps  with  credit. 

1st  Knight.  Your  last  news  ? 

Gonfred.  After  the  Page's  story  of  the 

death 
Of  Albert  and  Duke  Conrad  ? 

Sigifred.  And  the  return 

Of  Ludolph  with  the  Princess. 

Gonfred.  No  more,  save 

Prince  Gersa's  freeing  Abbot  Ethelbert, 
And  the  sweet  lady,  fair  Erminia, 
From  prison. 

1st  Knight.  Where  are  they  now  ?     Hast 
yet  heard  ? 

Gonfred.   With  the  sad  Emperor  they 
are  closeted;  10 

I  saw  the  three  pass  slowly  up  the  stairs, 
The  lady  weeping,  the  old  Abbot  cowl'd. 

Sigifred.  What  next  ? 

1st  Knight.         I  ache  to  think  on  't. 

Gonfred.  'T  is  with  fate. 

1st  Knight.  One  while  these  proud  towers 
are  hush'd  as  death. 

Gonfred.  The  next  our  poor  Prince  fills 

the  arched  rooms 
With  ghastly  ravings. 

Sigifred.  I  do  fear  his  brain. 


SCENE  IV 


OTHO   THE   GREAT 


187 


Gonfred.  I  will  see  more.     Bear  you  so 
stout  a  heart  ? 

[Exeunt  into  the  Castle. 

SCENE  IV.  —  A  Cabinet,  opening  towards 
a  terrace 

OTHO,  ERMINIA,  ETHELBERT,  and  a  Phy- 
sician, discovered. 

Otho.  O,  my  poor  boy  !     My  son  !     My 

son  !     My  Ludolph  ! 

Have  ye  no  comfort  for  me,  ye  physicians 
Of  the  weak  body  and  soul  ? 

Ethelbert.  'T  is  not  in  medicine, 

Either  of  heaven  or  earth,  to  cure,  unless 
Fit  time  be  chosen  to  administer. 

Otho.  A  kind  forbearance,  holy  Abbot. 

Come, 

Erminia;  here,  sit  by  me,  gentle  girl; 
Give  me  thy  hand ;  hast  thou  forgiven  me  ? 
Erminia.  Would  I  were  with  the  saints 

to  pray  for  you  ! 

Otho.  Why  will   ye  keep  me   from  my 

darling  child  ?  10 

Physician.  Forgive  me,  but  he  must  not 

see  thy  face. 
Otho.  Is  then  a  father's   countenance  a 

Gorgon  ? 

Hath  it  not  comfort  in  it  ?     Would  it  not 
Console  my  poor  boy,  cheer  him,  help  his 

spirits  ? 

Let  me  embrace  him;  let  me  speak  to  him; 
I  will !     Who  hinders  me  ?     Who  's  Em- 
peror ? 
Physician.  You  may  not,  Sire;  'twould 

overwhelm  him  quite, 
He  is  so  full  of  grief  and  passionate  wrath; 
Too  heavy  a  sigh  would  kill  him,  or  do 

worse. 

He  must  be  saved  by  fine  contrivances;    20 
And,  most  especially,  we  must  keep  clear 
Out  of  his  sight  a  father  whom  he  loves; 
His  heart  is  full,  it  can  contain  no  more, 
And  do  its  ruddy  office. 

Ethelbert.  Sage  advice; 

We  must  endeavour  how  to  ease  and  slacken 
The  tight-wound  energies  of  his  despair, 
Not  make  them  tenser. 


Otho.  Enough  !  I  hear,  I  hear; 

Yet  you  were  about  to  advise  more,  —  I 

listen. 
Ethelbert.  This  learned  doctor  will  agree 

with  me, 

That  not  in  the  smallest  point  should  he  be 
thwarted,  30 

Or  gainsaid  by  one  word;  his  very  mo- 
tions, 
Nods,  becks,  and  hints,  should  be  obey'd 

with  care, 

Even  on  the  moment;  so  his  troubled  mind 
May  cure  itself. 

Physician.        There  are  no  other  means. 
Otho.  Open  the  door;  let 's  hear  if  all  is 

quiet. 

Physician.  Beseech  you,  Sire,  forbear. 
Erminia.  Do,  do. 

Otho.  I  command  ! 

Open  it  straight;  —  hush  !  —  quiet !  —  my 

lost  boy ! 
My  miserable  child ! 

Ludolph  (indistinctly  imthout).     Fill,  fill 

my  goblet,  —  here  's  a  health  ! 
Erminia.  O,  close  the  door  ! 

Otho.  Let,  let  me  hear  his  voice;  this 
cannot  last:  39 

And  fain  would  I  catch  up  his  dying  words, 
Though  my  own  knell  they  be  !     This  can- 
not last  ! 

O  let  me  catch  his  voice  —  for  lo  !  I  hear 
This  silence  whisper  me  that  he  is  dead  I 
It  is  so  !  Gersa  ? 

Enter  GERSA. 

Physician.       Say,  how  fares  the  prince  ? 
Gersa.  More  calm;  his  features  are  less 

wild  and  flush'd; 
Once  he  complain'd  of  weariness. 

Physician.  Indeed ! 

'Tis  good,  — 'tis  good;    let  him  but  fall 

asleep, 
That  saves  him. 

Otho.          Gersa,  watch  him  like  a  child; 
Ward  him  from  harm,  —  and  bring  me 

better  news  ! 

Physician.  Humour  him  to  the  height. 
I  fear  to  go;  5o 


i88 


DRAMAS 


ACT  V 


For  should  he  catch  a  glimpse  of  my  dull 

garb, 

It  might  affright  him,  fill  him  with  suspi- 
cion 
That  we  believe  him  sick,  which  must  not 

be. 
Gersa.  I  will  invent  what  soothing  means 

I  can. 

[Exit  GERSA. 
Physician.   This   should  cheer   up  your 

Highness;  weariness 

Is  a  good  symptom,  and  most  favourable; 
It  gives  me  pleasant  hopes.     Please  you, 

walk  forth 

Upon  the  terrace;  the  refreshing  air 
Will  blow  one  half  of  your  sad  doubts 

away.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  V.  —  A  Banqueting  Hall,  bril- 
liantly illuminated,  and  set  forth  with 
all  costly  magnificence,  with  supper- 
tables  laden  with  services  of  gold  and 
silver.  A  door  in  the  back  scene,  guarded 
by  two  Soldiers.  Lords,  Ladies,  Knights, 
Gentlemen,  etc.,  whispering  sadly,  and 
ranging  themselves  j  part  entering  and 
Part  discovered. 
1st  Knight.  Grievously  are  we  tantalized, 

one  and  all; 
Sway'd  here  and  there,  commanded  to  and 

fro, 

As  though  we  were  the  shadows  of  a  sleep, 
And  link'd  to  a  dreaming  fancy.     What  do 

we  here  ? 
Gonfred.  I   am   no   seer;   you  know  we 

must  obey 
The  prince  from  A  to  Z,  though  it  should 

be 
To  set  the  place  in  flames.     I  pray,  hast 

heard 
Where  the  most  wicked  Princess  is  ? 

1st  Knight.  There,  sir, 

In  the  next  room ;  have  you  remark'd  those 
two  9 

Stout  soldiers  posted  at  the  door  ? 

Gonfred.  For  what  ? 

[They  whisper. 
1st  Lady.  How  ghast  a  train  ! 


2rf  Lady.  Sure  this  should  be  some  splen- 
did burial. 

1st  Lady.  What  fearful  whispering  !  See, 
see,  —  Gersa  there  ! 

Enter  GERSA. 

Gersa.  Put  on  your  brightest  looks; 
smile  if  you  can; 

Behave  as  all  were  happy;  keep  your  eyes 

From  the  least  watch  upon  him;  if  he 
speaks 

To  any  one,  answer  collectedly, 

Without  surprise,  his  questions,  howe'er 
strange. 

Do  this  to  the  utmost  —  though,  alas  !  with 
me 

The  remedy  grows  hopeless  !  Here  he 
comes,  —  20 

Observe  what  I  have  said  —  show  no  sur- 
prise. 

Enter  LUDOLPH,  followed  by  SIGIFRED  and 

Page. 
Ludolph.  A    splendid    company !     rare 

beauties  here  ! 
I  should  have   Orphean   lips,  and  Plato's 

fancy, 

Amphion's  utterance,  toned  with  his  lyre, 
Or  the  deep  key  of  Jove's  sonorous  month, 
To  give  fit  salutation.    Methought  I  heard, 
As  I  came   in,  some  whispers  —  what  of 

that? 
'Tis   natural  men  should  whisper;   at  the 

kiss 
Of   Psyche   given   by  Love,  there   was   a 

buzz 

Among  the  gods  !  —  and  silence  is  as  natu- 
ral. 30 
These    draperies    are   fine,  and,   being  a 

mortal, 

I  should  desire  no  better;  yet,  in  truth, 
There  must  be  some  superior  costliness, 
Some  wider-domed  high  magnificence  ! 
I  would  have,  as  a  mortal  I  may  not, 
Hangings  of  heaven's  clouds,  purple  and 

gold, 
Slung  from  the  spheres;  gauzes  of   silver 

mist, 


SCENE  V 


OTHO   THE   GREAT 


189 


Loop'd  up  with  cords  of  twisted  wreathed 

light, 

And  tassel'd  round  with  weeping  meteors  ! 
These  pendent  lamps  and  chandeliers  are 

bright  40 

As   earthly  fires  from  dull  dross   can  be 

cleansed; 

Yet  could  my  eyes  drink  up  intenser  beams 
Undazzled  —  this   is    darkness  —  when  I 

close 

These  lids,  I  see  far  fiercer  brilliances,  — 
Skies  full  of  splendid  moons,  and  shooting 

stars, 

And  spouting  exhalations,  diamond  fires, 
And  panting  fountains  quivering  with  deep 

glows  ! 
Yes  —  this  is  dark  —  is  it  not  dark  ? 

Sigifred.  My  Lord, 

T  is  late;  the  lights  of  festival  are  ever  49 
Quench'd  in  the  morn. 

Ludolph.  'T  is  not  to-morrow  then  ? 

Sigifred.  'Tis  early  dawn. 
Gersa.  Indeed  full  time  we  slept; 

Say  you  so,  Prince  ? 

Ludolph.          I  say  I  quarrel'd  with  you; 
We  did   not    tilt  each  other  — that's  a 

blessing,  — 
Good  gods !    no  innocent  blood   upon  my 

head! 

Sigifred.  Retire,  Gersa  ! 
Ludolph.        There  should  be  three  more 

here: 

For  two  of  them,  they  stay  away  perhaps, 
Being  gloomy-minded,  haters  of  fair  rev- 
els, - 
They  know  their  own  thoughts  best. 

As  for  the  third, 

Deep  blue  eyes,  semi-shaded  in  white  lids, 
Finish'd   with    lashes   fine   for  more   soft 

shade,  60 

Completed  by  her  twin-arch'd  ebon-brows; 
White  temples,  of  exactest  elegance, 
Of  even  mould,  felicitous  and  smooth; 
Cheeks  fashion'd  tenderly  on  either  side, 
So  perfect,  so  divine,  that  our  poor  eyes 
Are  dazzled  with  the  sweet  proportioning, 
And    wonder    that    't  is    so  —  the    magic 

chance  ! 


Her  nostrils, small,  fragrant,  fairy-delicate; 
Her  lips — I  swear  no  human   bones  e'er 

wore 
So  taking  a  disguise; — you  shall  behold 

her !  70 

We  '11  have  her  presently;  ay,  you  shall  see 

her, 

And  wonder  at  her,  friends,  she  is  so  fair; 
She  is  the   world's  chief  jewel,   and,  by 

heaven, 
She 's  mine  by  right  of  marriage  !  —  she  is 

mine  ! 

Patience,  good  people,  in  fit  time  I  send 
A  summoner,  —  she  will  obey  my  call, 
Being  a  wife  most  mild  and  dutiful. 
First  I  would  hear  what  music  is  prepared 
To  herald  and  receive  her;  let  me  hear  ! 
Sigifred.  Bid  the  musicians  soothe  him 

tenderly.  80 

[A  soft  strain  of  Music. 

Ludolph.  Ye  have  none  better  ?     No,  I 

am  content; 

'T  is  a  rich  sobbing  melody,  with  reliefs 
Full  and  majestic;  it  is  well  enough, 
And  will  be  sweeter,  when  you  see  her  pace 
Sweeping  into  this  presence,  glistened  o'er 
With  emptied  caskets,  and  her  train  upheld 
By  ladies,  habited  in  robes  of  lawn, 
Sprinkled    with    golden    crescents,  others 

bright 
In  silks,  with  spangles  shower'd,  and  bow'd 

to  89 

By  Duchesses  and  pearled  Margravines  ! 
Sad,  that  the  fairest  creature  of  the  earth  — 
I  pray  you  mind  me  not  —  't  is  sad,  I  say, 
That  the  extremest  beauty  of  the  world 
Should  so  entrench  herself  away  from  me, 
Behind  a  barrier  of  engender'd  guilt ! 
2d  Lady.  Ah  !  what  a  moan  ! 
1st  Knight.  Most  piteous  indeed  ! 

Ludolph.  She  shall  be  brought  before  this 

company, 

And  then  —  then  — 
1st  Lady.  He  muses. 
Gersa.  O,  Fortune,  where  will  this 

end? 
Sigifred.   I  guess  his  purpose  !     Indeed 

he  must  not  have 


190 


DRAMAS 


ACT  V 


That  pestilence  brought  in,  —  that  cannot 

be,  ioo 

There  we  must  stop  him. 

Gersa.  I  am  lost !     Hush,  hush  ! 

He  is  about  to  rave  again. 

Ludolph.  A  barrier  of  guilt !     I  was  the 

fool, 
She  was  the  cheater  !     Who  's  the  cheater 

now, 
And  who  the  fool?     The  entrapp'd,  the 

caged  fool, 
The  bird-limed  raven  ?     She  shall  croak  to 

death 

Secure  !     Methinks  I  have  her  in  my  fist, 
To  crush  her  with  my  heel !     Wait,  wait  ! 

I  marvel 
My  father  keeps  away.    Good  friend  —  ah  ! 

Sigifred  ! 

Do  bring  him  to  me,  —  and  Erminia        no 
I  fain  would  see  before  I  sleep  —  and  Eth- 

elbert, 

That  he  may  bless  me,  as  I  know  he  will, 
Though  I  have  cursed  him. 

Sigifred.  Rather  suffer  me 

To  lead  you  to  them. 

Ludolph.  No,  excuse  me,  —  no  ! 

The  day  is  not  quite  done.    Go,  bring  them 

hither.  \Exit  SIGIFRED. 

Certes,  a  father's   smile   should,  like  sun 

light, 

Slant  on  my  sheafed  harvest  of  ripe  bliss. 
Besides,  I  thirst  to  pledge  my  lovely  bride 
In  a  deep  goblet:  let  me  see  —  what  wine? 
The  strong  Iberian  juice,  or  mellow  Greek  ? 
Or  pale  Calabrian  ?    Or  the  Tuscan  grape  ? 
Or  of  old  Etna's  pulpy  wine-presses,      122 
Black  stain'd  with  the  fat  vintage,  as  it 

were 

The  purple  slaughter-house,  where  Bac- 
chus' self 
Prick'd  his  own  swollen  veins  ?    Where  is 

my  page  ? 
Page.  Here,  here ! 
Ludolph.  Be  ready  to  obey  me;    anon 

thou  shalt 

Bear  a  soft  message  for  me;  for  the  hour 
Draws  near  when  I  must  make  a  winding 
up 


Of   bridal    mysteries  —  a    fine-spun   ven- 
geance i 

Carve  it  on  my  tomb,  that,  when  I  rest 
beneath,  J3o 

Men  shall  confess  this    Prince  was  gull'd 
and  cheated, 

But  from  the  ashes  of  disgrace  he  rose 

More  than  a  fiery  phoenix,  and  did  burn 

His  ignominy  up  in  purging  fires  ! 

Did  I  not  send,  Sir,  but  a  moment  past, 

For  my  Father  ? 

Gersa.  You  did. 

Ludolph.  Perhaps  't  would  be 

Much  better  he  came  not. 

Gersa.  He  enters  now  ! 

Enter  OTHO,  ERMINIA,  ETHELBERT,  SIGI- 
FRED, and  Physician. 

Ludolph.  O  thou  good  man,  against  whose 

sacred  head 

I  was  a  mad  conspirator,  chiefly  too,        139 
For  the  sake  of  my  fair  newly  wedded  wife, 
Now  to  be  punish'd,  do  not  look  so  sad  ! 
Those  charitable  eyes  will  thaw  my  heart, 
Those  tears  will  wash  away  a  just  resolve, 
A  verdict  ten  times  sworn  !     Awake  — 

awake  — 

Put  on  a  judge's  brow,  and  use  a  tongue 
Made  iron-stern  by  habit !     Thou  shalt  see 
A  deed  to  be  applauded,  'scribed  in  gold  ! 
Join  a  loud  voice  to  mine,  and  so  denounce 
What  I  alone  will  execute 

Otho.  Dear  son, 

What  is  it  ?     By  your  father's  love,  I  sue 
That  it  be  nothing  merciless  ! 

Ludolph.  To  that  demon  ? 

Not  so  !     No  !     She  is  in  temple-stall     152 
Being  garnish'd  for  the  sacrifice,  and  I, 
The  Priest  of  Justice,  will  immolate  her 
Upon  the  altar  of  wrath  !     She  stings  me 

through  !  — 

Even  as  the  worm  doth  feed  upon  the  nut, 
So  she,  a  scorpion,  preys  upon  my  brain ! 
I  feel  her  gnawing  here  !      Let   her  but 

vanish, 

Then,  father,  I  will  lead  your  legions  forth, 
Compact  in  steeled  squares,  and  speared 

files,  160 


SCENE  V 


OTHO   THE   GREAT 


191 


And  bid  our  trumpets  speak  a  fell  rebuke 
To  nations  drows'd  in  peace  ! 

Otho.  To-morrow,  son, 

Be  your  word  law;  forget  to-day  — 

Ludolph.  I  will 

When   I   have   finish'd   it!     Now,  —  now, 

I  'm  pight, 
Tight-footed  for  the  deed  ! 

Erminia.  Alas  !  Alas  ! 

Ludolph.  What   angel's   voice  is  that? 

Erminia  ! 

Ah  !  gentlest  creature,  whose  sweet  inno- 
cence 

Was  almost  murder'd;  I  am  penitent; 
Wilt  thou  forgive  me  ?      And  thou,  holy 

man, 

Good  Ethelbert,  shall  I  die  in  peace  with 
you  ?  170 

Erminia.  Die,  my  lord  ! 
Ludolph.  I  feel  it  possible. 

Otho.  Physician  ? 

Physician.  I  fear  me  he  is  past  my  skill. 
Otho.  Not  so  ! 

Ludolph.  I  see  it  —  I    see   it  —  I  have 

been  wandering  ! 
Half  mad  —  not  right  here  —  I  forget  my 

purpose. 

Bestir  —  bestir  —  Auranthe  !    Ha  !  ha  !  ha ! 
Youngster  !    Page  !    go  bid  them  drag  her 

to  me  ! 
Obey  !     This  shall  finish  it ! 

[Draws  a  dagger. 
Otho.  Oh,  my  son  !  my  son  ! 


Sigifred.  This  must  not  be  —  stop  there  ! 

Ludolph.  Am  I  obey'd  ? 

A  little  talk  with  her  —  no  harm  —  haste  ! 

haste  !  [Exit  Page. 

Set  her  before  me  —  never  fear  I  can  strike. 

Several  Voices.  My  Lord  !     My  Lord  ! 

Gersa.  Good  Prince  ! 

Ludolph.  Why  do  ye  trouble  me  ?  out 
—  out  —  away  !  ,g2 

There  she  is  !  take  that !  and  that !  no,  no  — 
That 's  not  well  done.  —  Where  is  she  ? 

The  doors  open.  Enter  Page.  Several  wo- 
men are  seen  grouped  about  AURANTHE  in 
the  inner-room. 

Page.  Alas  !     My  Lord,  my  Lord  !  they 

cannot  move  her  ! 
Her  arms  are  stiff,  —  her  fingers  clench'd 

and  cold  ! 
Ludolph.  She  's  dead  ! 

[Staggers  and  falls  into  their  arms. 
Ethelbert.  Take  away  the  dagger. 
Gersa.  Softly;  so ! 

Otho.     Thank  God  for  that ! 
Sigifred.         It  could  not  harm  him  now. 
Gersa.  No  !  — brief  be  his  anguish  ! 
Ludolph.  She  's  gone  !     I  am  content  — 
Nobles,  good  night !  190 

We  are  all  weary  —  faint  —  set   ope    the 

doors  — 
I  will  to  bed  !  —  To-morrow  — 

[Dies. 
The  Curtain  falls. 


KING   STEPHEN 


A    DRAMATIC   FRAGMENT 


Lord  Houghton,  when  reprinting  this  piece 
in  the  Aldine  edition  of  1876,  appends  the  fol- 
lowing note  from  the  MSS.  of  Charles  Armi- 
tage  Brown :  '  As  soon  as  Keats  had  finished 
Otho  the  Great  I  pointed  out  to  him  a  subject 
for  an  English  historical  tragedy  in  the  reign 
of  Stephen,  beginning  with  his  defeat  by  the 
Empress  Maud  and  ending  with  the  death  of 
his  son  Eustace.  He  was  struck  with  the  vari- 


ety of  events  and  characters  which  must  neces- 
sarily be  introduced,  and  I  offered  to  give,  as 
before,  their  dramatic  conduct.  "  The  play  must 
open,"  I  began,  "  with  the  field  of  battle,  when 
Stephen's  forces  are  retreating."  —  "Stop," 
he  cried,  "I  have  been  too  long  in  leading 
strings ;  I  will  do  all  this  myself."  He  imme- 
diately set  about  it,  and  wrote  two  or  three 
scenes.' 


ACT   I 

SCENE  I.  —  Field  of  Battle 

Alarum.     Enter  King  STEPHEN,  Knights, 
and  Soldiers. 

Stephen.  If  shame  can  on  a  soldier's  vein- 

swoll'n  front 
Spread  deeper  crimson  than  the  battle's 

toil, 

Blush  in  your  casing  helmets  !  for  see,  see  ! 
Yonder  my  chivalry,  my  pride  of  war, 
Wrench'd  with  an   iron   hand   from   firm 

array, 

Are  routed  loose  about  the  plashy  meads, 
Of  honour  forfeit.      O,   that   my   known 

voice 
Could  reach  your  dastard  ears,  and  fright 

you  more  ! 
Fly,   cowards,   fly !    Glocester  is   at  your 

backs  ! 
Throw  your  slack  bridles  o'er  the  flurried 

manes, 
Ply  well  the  rowell  with  faint  trembling 

heels,  10 

Scampering  to  death  at  last ! 

1st  Knight.  The  enemy 

Bears  his  flaunt  standard  close  upon  their 


2d  Knight.  Sure  of  a  bloody  prey,  seeing 

the  fens 
Will  swamp  them  girth-deep. 

Stephen.  Over  head  and  ears, 

No  matter  !     'T  is  a  gallant  enemy; 
How  like  a  comet  he  goes  streaming  on. 
But  we  must  plague  him  in  the  flank,  — 

hey,  friends  ? 
We  are  well  breathed,  —  follow  ! 

Enter  Earl  BALDWIN  and  Soldiers,  as 

defeated. 

Stephen.  De  Redvers  ! 

What  is  the  monstrous  bugbear  that  can 
fright  20 

Baldwin  ? 

Baldwin.  No  scare-crow,  but  the  fortu- 
nate star 
Of  boisterous  Chester,  whose  fell  truncheon 

now 

Points  level  to  the  goal  of  victory. 
This  way  he  comes,  and  if  you  would  main- 
tain 

Your  person  unaffronted  by  vile  odds, 
Take  horse,  my  Lord. 

Stephen.      And  which  way  spur  for  life  ? 
Now  I  thank  Heaven  I  am  in  the  toils, 
That  soldiers   may  bear  witness   how  my 
arm 


192 


SCENE  II 


KING    STEPHEN 


Can  burst  the  meshes.     Not  the  eagle  more 
Loves  to  beat  up  against  a  tyrannous  blast, 
Than  I  to  meet  the  torrent  of  my  foes.     3 1 
This  is  a  brag,  —be  't  so,  —  but  if  I  fall, 
Carve  it  upon  my  'scutcheon'd  sepulchre. 
On,   fellow   soldiers  !      Earl   of   Redvers, 

back! 

Not  twenty  Earls  of  Chester  shall  brow- 
beat 
The  diadem.  [Exeunt.     Alarum. 


SCENE  II.  —  Another  part  of  the  Field 

Trumpets  sounding  a  Victory.     Enter 
GLOCESTER,  Knights,  and  Forces. 

Glocester.  Now  may  we  lift  our  bruised 

visors  up, 
And  take   the  flattering  freshness  of  the 

air, 

While  the  wide  din  of  battle  dies  away 
Into  times  past,  yet  to  be  echoed  sure 
In  the  silent  pages  of  our  chroniclers. 
1st    Knight.   Will    Stephen's    death    be 

mark'd  there,  my  good  Lord, 
Or  that  we  gave  him  lodging  in  yon  towers  ? 
Glocester.  Fain  would  I  know  the  great 
usurper's  fate. 

Enter  two  Captains  severally. 
1st  Captain.  My  Lord  ! 
2d  Captain.  Most  noble  Earl ! 

1st  Captain.  The  King  — 
2d  Captain.  The  Empress  greets  — 

Glocester.  What  of  the  King  ? 
1st  Captain.    He  sole  and  lone  maintains 
A  hopeless  bustle  'mid  our  swarming  arms, 
And  with  a  nimble  savageness  attacks,      13 
Escapes,  makes  fiercer  onset,  then  anew 
Eludes  death,  giving  death  to  most  that 

dare 

Trespass  within  the  circuit  of  his  sword  ! 
He  must  by  this  have  fallen.     Baldwin  is 

taken; 

And  for  the  Duke  of  Bretagne,  like  a  stag 
He  flies,  for  the  Welsh  beagles  to  hunt 

down. 
God  save  the  Empress  ! 


Glocester.  Now  our  dreaded  Queen: 

What  message  from  her  Highness  ? 

2d  Captain.  Royal  Maud 

From  the  throng'd  towers  of  Lincoln  hath 

look'd  down,  22 

Like  Pallas  from  the  walls  of  Ilioii, 
And  seen  her  enemies  havock'd  at  her  feet. 
She  greets  most  noble  Glocester  from  her 

heart, 
Entreating  him,  his  captains,   and  brave 

knights, 

To  grace  a  banquet.     The  high  city  gates 
Are  envious  which  shall  see  your  triumph 


The  streets  are  full  of  music. 

Enter  2d  Knight. 

Glocester.  Whence  come  you  ? 

2d   Knight.    From    Stephen,    my    good 
Prince,  —  Stephen  !     Stephen  !       30 
Glocester.  Why  do  you  make  such  echo- 
ing of  his  name  ? 
2d  Knight.  Because  I  think,  my  lord,  he 

is  no  man, 
But   a   fierce   demon,  'nointed   safe   from 

wounds, 

And  inisbaptized  with  a  Christian  name. 
Glocester.  A  mighty  soldier !  —  Does  he 

still  hold  out  ? 
2d  Knight.  He  shames  our  victory.     His 

valour  still 

Keeps  elbow-room  amid  our  eager  swords, 
And  holds  our  bladed  falchions  all  aloof  — 
His  gleaming   battle-axe  being  slaughter- 
sick, 

Smote  on  the  morion  of  a  Flemish  knight, 
Broke  short  in  his  hand;  upon  the  which 
he  flung  41 

The  heft  away  with  such  a  vengeful  force, 
It  paunch'd  the  Earl  of  Chester's  horse, 

who  then 

Spleen-hearted  came  in  full  career  at  him. 
Glocester.  Did  no  one  take  him  at  a  van- 
tage then  ? 
2d  Knight.  Three  then  with  tiger  leap 

upon  him  flew, 

Whom,  with  his   sword   swift-drawn   and 
nimbly  held, 


194 


DRAMAS 


ACT  I 


He  stung  away  again,  and  stood  to  breathe, 

Smiling.     Anon  upon  him  rush'd  once  more 

A  throng  of  foes,  and  in  this  renew'd  strife, 

My  sword  met  his  and  snapp'd  off  at  the 

hilt.  5I 

Glocester.  Come,  lead  me  to  this  man  — 

and  let  us  move 

In  silence,  not  insulting  his  sad  doom 
With  clamorous   trumpets.     To  the   Em- 
press bear 
My  salutation  as  befits  the  time. 

[Exeunt  GLOCESTER  and  Forces. 

S CENE  III.—  The  Field  of  Battle 
Enter  STEPHEN  unarmed, 

Stephen.  Another  sword !     And  what  if 

I  could  seize 

One  from  Bellona's  gleaming  armoury, 
Or  choose  the  fairest  of  her  sheafed  spears  ! 
Where  are  my  enemies?     Here,  close  at 

hand, 
Here  come  the  testy  brood.      0,   for   a 

sword  ! 
I  'm  faint  —  a  biting    sword  !      A  noble 

sword  ! 
A  hedge-stake  —  or  a  ponderous  stone  to 

hurl 
With  brawny  vengeance,  like  the  labourer 

Cain. 
Come  on  !     Farewell  my  kingdom,  and  all 

hail 

Thou  superb,  plumed,  and  helmeted  re- 
nown, 10 
All  hail  —  I  would  not  truck  this  brilliant 

day 

To  rule  in  Pylos  with  a  Nestor's  beard  — 
Come  on ! 

Enter  DE  KAIMS  and  Knights,  etc. 
De  Kaims.   Is 't  madness  or  a  hunger 

after  death 
That    makes    thee    thus    unarm'd    throw 

taunts  at  us  ?  — 

Yield,  Stephen,  or  my  sword's  point  dips  in 
The  gloomy  current  of  a  traitor's  heart. 
Stephen.  Do   it,   De   Kaims,  I  will   not 
budge  an  inch. 


De  Kaims.   Yes,  of   thy   madness  thou 

shalt  take  the  meed. 
Stephen.  Darest  thou  ? 
De  Kaims.  How  dare,  against  a  man  dis- 

arm'd  ? 

Stephen.  What  weapons  has  the  lion  but 

himself  ?  20 

Come  not  near  me,  De  Kaims,  for  by  the 

price 

Of  all  the  glory  I  have  won  this  day, 
Being  a  king,  I  will  not  yield  alive 
To  any  but  the  second  man  of  the  realm, 
Robert  of  Glocester. 

De  Kaims.  Thou  shalt  vail  to  me. 

Stephen.   Shall  I,   when  I    have   sworn 

against  it,  sir  ? 
Thou  think'st  it  brave  to  take  a  breathing 

king, 
That,   on  a  court-day  bow'd  to  haughty 

Maud, 

The  awed  presence-chamber  may  be  bold 
To   whisper,  there 's   the   man   who   took 
alive  3o 

Stephen  —  me  —  prisoner.       Certes,    De 

Kaims, 
The  ambition  is  a  noble  one. 

De  Kaims.  'T  is  true, 

And,  Stephen,  I  must  compass  it. 

Stephen.  No,  no, 

Do  not  tempt  me  to  throttle  you  on  the 

gorge, 
Or  with  my  gauntlet  crush   your  hollow 

breast, 
Just  when  your  knighthood  is  grown  ripe 

and  full 
For  lordship. 

A  Soldier.  Is  an  honest  yeoman's  spear 
Of  no  use  at  a  need  ?     Take  that. 

Stephen.  Ah,  dastard  ! 

De  Kaims.  What,  you  are  vulnerable  ! 

my  prisoner ! 

Stephen.  No,  not  yet.     I  disclaim  it,  and 
demand  40 

Death  as  a  sovereign  right  unto  a  king 
Who  'sdains  to  yield  to  any  but  his  peer, 
If  not  in  title,  yet  in  noble  deeds, 
The  Earl  of  Glocester.     Stab  to  the  hilt, 
De  Kaims, 


SCENE  IV 


KING    STEPHEN 


'95 


For  I  will  never  by  mean  hands  be  led 
From  this  so  famous  field.     Do  you  hear  ! 

Be  quick  ! 

Trumpets.     Enter  the  Earl  of  CHESTER  and 
Knights. 

SCENE  IV.  — A  Presence  Chamber.  Queen 
MAUD  in  a  Chair  of  State,  the  Earls 
of  GLOCESTER  and  CHESTER,  Lords, 
Attendants 
Maud.  Glocester,  no  more :  I  will  behold 

that  Boulogne: 

Set  him  before  me.     Not  for  the  poor  sake 
Of  regal  pomp  and  a  vain-glorious  hour, 
As  thou  with  wary  speech,  yet  near  enough, 
Hast  hinted. 

Glocester.  Faithful  counsel  have  I  given; 
If  wary,  for  your  Highness'  benefit. 

Maud.  The  Heavens  forbid  that  I  should 

not  think  so, 

For  by  thy  valour  have  I  won  this  realm, 
Which  by  thy  wisdom  I  will  ever  keep. 
To  sage  advisers  let  me  ever  bend  10 

A  meek  attentive  ear,  so  that  they  treat 
Of  the  wide  kingdom's  rule  and  govern- 
ment, 

Not  trenching  on  our  actions  personal. 
Advised,   not   school'd,  I    would   be;    and 

henceforth 

Spoken  to  in  clear,  plain,  and  open  terms, 
Not  side- ways  sermon'd  at. 

Glocester.  Then  in  plain  terms, 

Once  more  for  the  fallen  king  — 

Maud.  Your  pardon,  Brother, 

I  would  no  more  of  that;  for,  as  I  said, 
*T  is  not  for  worldly  pomp  I  wish  to  see 
The  rebel,  but  as  dooming  judge  to  give  20 
A  sentence  something  worthy  of  his  guilt. 
Glocester.  If  't  must  be  so,  I  '11  bring  him 
to  your  presence. 

[Exit  GLOCESTER. 
Maud.  A  meaner  summoner  might  do  as 

well  — 
My   Lord   of   Chester,   is  't   true   what   I 

hear 

Of  Stephen  of  Boulogne,  our  prisoner, 
That  he,  as  a  fit  penance  for  his  crimes, 


Eats  wholesome,  sweet,  and  palatable  food 
Off  Glocester's  golden  dishes  —  drinks  pure 

wine, 
Lodges  soft  ? 

Chester.  More   than    that,   my  gracious 

Queen, 
Has  anger'd  me.     The   noble   Earl,   me- 

thinks,  30 

Full  soldier  as  he  is,  and  without  peer 
In  counsel,  dreams  too  much  among  his 

books. 

It  may  read  well,  but  sure  't  is  out  of  date 
To  play  the  Alexander  with  Darius. 

Maud.  Truth!    I  think  so.    By  Heavens 

it  shall  not  last  ! 
Chester.  It  would  amaze  your  Highness 

now  to  mark       i 

How  Glocester  overstrains  his  courtesy 
To  that  crime-loving  rebel,  that  Boulogne  — 
Maud.  That  ingrate  ! 
Chester.  For  whose  vast  ingratitude 

To  our  late  sovereign  lord,  your  noble  sire, 
The  generous  Earl  condoles  in  his  mishaps, 
And  with  a  sort  of  lackeying  friendliness, 
Talks  off  the  mighty  frowning  from  his 

brow,  43 

Woos  him  to  hold  a  duet  in  a  smile, 
Or,  if  it  please  him,  play  an  hour  at  chess  — 
Maud.  A  perjured  slave  ! 
Chester.  And  for  his  perjury, 

Glocester  has  fit  rewards  —  nay,  I  believe, 
He  sets  his  bustling  household's   wits  at 

work 

For  flatteries  to  ease  this  Stephen's  hours, 
And  make  a  heaven  of  his  purgatory ;       50 
Adorning  bondage  with  the  pleasant  gloss 
Of  feasts  and  music,  and  all  idle  shows 
Of  indoor  pageantry;  while  syren  whispers, 
Predestined   for   his   ear,    'scape   as   half- 

check'd 

From  lips  the  courtliest  and  the  rubiest, 
Of  all  the  realm,  admiring  of  his  deeds. 
Maud.  A  frost  upon  his  summer  ! 
Chester.  A  queen's  nod 

Can  make  his  June  December.     Here  he 

comes. 


THE   EVE   OF   ST.    MARK 


A   FRAGMENT 


Iri  a  letter  to  George  and  Georgiana  Keats, 
dated  February  14,  1819,  Keats  says  that  lie 
means  to  send  them  in  the  next  packet '  The 
Pot  of  Basil,'  'St.  Agnes'  Eve,'  and  'if  I 
should  have  finished  it  a  little  thing  called  "  The 
Eve  of  St.  Mark."  '  He  does  not  refer  to  the 
poem  again  directly,  until  writing  from  Win- 
chester to  the  same,  September  20,  when  he 
says :  '  The  great  beauty  of  poetry  is  that  it 
makes  everything  in  every  place  interesting. 
The  palatine  Vienna  and  the  abbotine  Win- 
chester are  equally  interesting.  Some  time 
since  I  began  a  poem  called  "  The  Eve  of  St. 
Mark,"  quite  in  the  spirit  of  town  quietude. 
I  think  I  will  give  you  the  sensation  of  walk- 
ing about  an  old  country  town  in  a  coolish  even- 
ing. I  know  not  whether  I  shall  ever  finish  it. 
I  will  give  it  as  far  as  I  have  gone.'  The 
poem  appears  never  to  have  been  finished,  and 
was  published  in  this  fragmentary  form  in  Life, 
Letters  and  Literary  Remains. 

Mr.  Forman  gives  an  interesting  extract  from 


a  letter  written  him  by  Mr.  Rossetti,  which 
throws  a  possible  light  on  the  origin  of  the 
poem.  He  had  been  reading  Keats's  letters  to 
Fanny  Brawne,  and  writes  :  '  I  should  think  it 
very  conceivable  —  nay,  I  will  say  to  myself 
highly  probable  and  almost  certain,  —  that  the 
"  Poem  which  I  have  in  my  head  "  referred  to 
by  Keats  at  page  106  was  none  other  than  the 
fragmentary  "  Eve  of  St.  Mark."  By  the  light 
of  the  extract,  ...  I  judge  that  the  heroine  — 
remorseful  after  trifling  with  a  sick  and  now 
absent  lover  —  might  make  her  way  to  the 
minster-porch  to  learn  his  fate  by  the  spell, 
and  perhaps  see  his  figure  enter  but  not  re- 
turn.' The  extract  from  Keats's  letter  is  as 
follows  :  '  If  my  health  would  bear  it,  I  could 
write  a  Poem  which  1  have  in  my  head,  which 
would  be  a  consolation  for  people  in  such  a 
situation  as  mine.  I  would  show  some  one  in 
Love  as  I  am,  with  a  person  living  in  such 
Liberty  as  you  do.' 


UPON  a  Sabbath-day  it  fell; 
Twice  holy  was  the  Sabbath-bell, 
That  call'd  the  folk  to  evening  prayer; 
The  city  streets  were  clean  and  fair 
From  wholesome  drench  of  April  rains; 
And,  on  the  western  window  panes, 
The  chilly  sunset  faintly  told 
Of  unmatured  green  valleys  cold, 
Of  the  green  thorny  bloomless  hedge, 
Of  rivers  new  with  spring-tide  sedge,     i< 
Of  primroses  by  shelter'd  rills, 
And  daisies  on  the  aguish  hills. 
Twice  holy  was  the  Sabbath-bell: 
The  silent  streets  were  crowded  well 
With  staid  and  pious  companies, 
Warm  from  their  fireside  orat'ries; 
And  moving,  with  demurest  air, 
To  even-song,  and  vesper  prayer. 


Each  arched  porch,  and  entry  low, 
Was  fill'd  with  patient  folk  and  slow,        20 
With  whispers  hush,  and  shuffling  feet, 
While  play'd  the  organ  loud  and  sweet. 

The  bells  had  ceased,  the  prayers  begun, 
And  Bertha  had  not  yet  half  done 
A  curious  volume,  patch'd  and  torn, 
That  all  day  long,  from  earliest  morn, 
Had  taken  captive  her  two  eyes, 
Among  its  golden  broideries; 
Perplex'd  her  with  a  thousand  things,  — 
The  stars  of  Heaven,  and  angels'  wings,  30 
Martyrs  in  a  fiery  blaze, 
Azure  saints  and  silver  rays, 
Moses'  breastplate,  and  the  seven 
Candlesticks  John  saw  in  Heaven, 
The  winged  Lion  of  Saint  Mark, 


196 


THE   EVE   OF   ST.    MARK 


197 


And  the  Covenantal  Ark, 
With  its  many  mysteries, 
Cherubim  and  golden  mice. 

Bertha  was  a  maiden  fair, 

Dwelling  in  th'  old  Minster-square;  40 

From  her  fireside  she  could  see, 

Sidelong,  its  rich  antiquity, 

Far  as  the  Bishop's  garden-wall; 

Where  sycamores  and  elm-trees  tall, 

Full-leaved,  the  forest  had  outstript, 

By  no  sharp  north-wind  ever  nipt, 

So  shelter'd  by  the  mighty  pile. 

Bertha  arose,  and  read  awhile, 

With  forehead  'gainst  the  window-pane. 

Again  she  tried,  and  then  again,  50 

Until  the  dusk  eve  left  her  dark 

Upon  the  legend  of  St.  Mark. 

From  plaited  lawn-frill,  fine  and  thin, 

She  lifted  up  her  soft  warm  chin, 

With  aching  neck  and  swimming  eyes, 

And  dazed  with  saintly  imag'ries. 

All  was  gloom,  and  silent  all, 

Save  now  and  then  the  still  foot-fall 

Of  one  returning  homewards  late, 

Past  the  echoing  minster-gate.  60 

The  clamorous  daws,  that  all  the  day 

Above  tree-tops  and  towers  play, 

Pair  by  pair  had  gone  to  rest, 

Each  in  its  ancient  belfry-nest, 

Where  asleep  they  fall  betimes, 

To  music  and  the  drowsy  chimes. 

All  was  silent,  all  was  gloom, 

Abroad  and  in  the  homely  room : 

Down  she  sat,  poor  cheated  soul ! 

And  struck  a  lamp  from  the  dismal  coal ;    70 

Lean'd  forward,  with  bright  drooping  hair 

And  slant  book,  full  against  the  glare. 

Her  shadow,  in  uneasy  guise, 

Hover'd  about,  a  giant  size, 

On  ceiling-beam  and  old  oak  chair, 

The  parrot's  cage,  and  panel-square; 


And  the  warm  angled  winter-screen, 

On  which  were  many  monsters  seen, 

Call'd  doves  of  Siam,  Lima  mice, 

And  legless  birds  of  Paradise,  80 

Macaw,  and  tender  Avadavat, 

And  silken-furr'd  Angora  cat. 

Untired  she  read,  her  shadow  still 

Glower'd  about,  as  it  would  fill 

The  room  with  wildest  forms  and  shades, 

As  though  some  ghostly  queen  of  spades 

Had  come  to  mock  behind  her  back, 

And  dance,  and  ruffle  her  garments  black. 

Untired  she  read  the  legend  page, 

Of  holy  Mark,  from  youth  to  age,  90 

On  land,  on  sea,  in  pagan  chains, 

Rejoicing  for  his  many  pains. 

Sometimes  the  learned  eremite, 

With  golden  star,  or  dagger  bright, 

Referr'd  to  pious  poesies 

Written  in  smallest  crow-quill  size 

Beneath  the  text;  and  thus  the  rhyme 

Was  parcell'd  out  from  time  to  time: 

-  *  Als  writith  he  of  swevenis, 
Men  han  beforue  they  wake  in  bliss,        100 
Whanne  that  hir  f  riendes  thinke  him  bound 
In  crimped  shroude  farre  under  grounde; 
And  how  a  litling  child  mote  be 
A  saint  er  its  nativitie, 
Gif  that  the  modre  (God  her  blesse  !) 
Kepen  in  solitarinesse, 
And  kissen  devoute  the  holy  croce, 
Of  Goddes  love,  and  Sathan's  force,  — 
He  writith;  and  thinges  many  mo 
Of  swiche  thinges  I  may  not  show.  ue 

Bot  I  must  tellen  verilie 
Somdel  of  Sainte  Cicilie, 
And  chieflie  what  he  auctorethe 
Of  Sainte  Markis  life  and  dethe: ' 

At  length  her  constant  eyelids  come 
Upon  the  fervent  martyrdom; 
Then  lastly  to  his  holy  shrine, 
Exalt  amid  the  tapers'  shine 
At  Venice,  — 


HYPERION 


A   FRAGMENT 


The  first  mention  of  Hyperion  in  Keats's 
letters  occurs  in  that  written  on  Christmas  day, 
1818,  to  his  brother  and  sister  in  America,  in 
which  he  says :  '  I  think  you  knew  before  you 
left  England  that  my  next  subject  would  be 
"  the  fall  of  Hyperion."  I  went  on  a  little 
with  it  last  night,  but  it  will  take  some  time  to 
get  into  the  vein  again.  I  will  not  give  you 
any  extracts  because  I  wish  the  whole  to  make 
an  impression.'  He  speaks  of  it  a  week  later 
as  '  scarce  begun.'  Again,  February  14,  1819, 
he  writes  to  the  same :  '  I  have  not  gone  on 
with  Hyperion  —  for  to  tell  the  truth  I  have 
not  been  in  great  cue  for  writing  lately  —  I 
must  wait  for  the  spring  to  rouse  me  up  a  lit- 
tle.' In  August  he  told  Bailey  that  he  had 
been  writing  parts  of  Hyperion,  but  it  is  quite 
plain  that  he  did  little  continuous  work  on  it, 
but  was  drawn  off  by  his  tales  and  tragedy. 
From  Winchester,  September  22,  1819,  he 
writes  to  Reynolds  :  '  I  have  given  up  Hyperion 
—  there  were  too  many  Miltonic  inversions  in 
it  —  Miltonic  verse  cannot  be  written  but  in  an 
artful,  or,  rather,  artist's  humour.  I  wish  to 
give  myself  up  to  other  sensations.  English 
ought  to  be  kept  up.  It  may  be  interesting  to 
you  to  pick  out  some  lines  from  Hyperion,  and 
put  a  mark  X  to  the  false  beauty  proceeding 
from  art,  and  one  ||  to  the  true  voice  of  feeling. 
Upon  my  soul  'twas  imagination  —  I  cannot 
make  the  distinction  —  every  now  and  then 
there  is  a  Miltonic  intonation  —  but  I  cannot 
make  the  division  properly.'  From  the  silence 
regarding  the  poem  in  his  after  letters,  it  would 
appear  that  he  left  it  at  this  stage. 

That  Keats  designed  a  large  epic  in  Hype- 
rion, which  was  to  be  in  ten  books,  is  plain,  but 
it  is  also  tolerably  clear  that  he  abandoned  his 
purpose,  for  he  did  not  actually  forbid  the 
publication  of  the  fragment,  though  it  is  doubt- 
ful if  the  whole  reason  for  his  action  is  given 
in  the  Publishers'  Advertisement  to  the  1820 
volume,  containing  the  poem.  '  If  any  apology 
be  thought  necessary,'  it  is  there  said,  '  for  the 


I98 


appearance  of  the  unfinished  poem  of  Hyperion, 
the  publishers  beg  to  state  that  they  alone  are 
responsible,  as  it  was  printed  at  their  particular 
request,  and  contrary  to  the  wish  of  the  au- 
thor. The  poem  was  intended  to  have  been  of 
equal  length  with  Endymion,  but  the  reception 
given  to  that  work  discouraged  the  author 
from  proceeding.' 

Keats's  friend  Woodhouse,  in  his  interleaved 
and  annotated  copy  of  Endymion,  says  of  Hy- 
perion: 'The  poem  if  completed  would  have 
treated  of  the  dethronement  of  Hyperion,  the 
former  God  of  the  Sun,  by  Apollo,  —  and  inci- 
dentally of  those  of  Oceanus  by  Neptune,  of 
Saturn  by  Jupiter,  etc. ,  and  of  the  war  of  the 
Giants  for  Saturn's  reestablishment,  with  other 
events,  of  which  we  have  but  very  dark  hints  in 
the  mythological  poets  of  Greece  and  Rome.' 

It  is  not  impossible  that  besides  the  inertia 
produced  by  diminution  of  physical  powers,  an- 
other reason  existed  for  Keats's  failure  to  com- 
plete his  poem.  In  the  two  full  books  which 
we  have,  he  had  stated  so  fully  and  explicitly 
the  underlying  thought  in  his  interpretation  of 
the  myth  that  his  interest  in  any  delineation 
of  a  hopeless  struggle  might  well  have  been 
unequal  to  the  task.  The  speeches  successively 
of  Oceanus  and  Clymene  which  so  enraged 
Enceladus  were  the  masculine  and  feminine 
confessions  that  as  their  own  supremacy  over 
the  antecedent  chaos  had  been  due  to  the  law 
which  made  order  expel  disorder,  so  the  suprem- 
acy of  the  new  race  of  gods  over  them  was 
due  to  the  still  further  law 

'  That  first  in  beauty  should  be  first  in  might.' 

Nay,  more,  the  vision  they  have  is  not  of  a 
restoration  of  the  old  order,  but  of  the  defeat  of 
the  new  by  some  still  more  distant  evolution. 

*  Another  race  may  drive 
Our  conquerors  to  mourn  as  we  do  now.' 

Of  the  relation  of  this  poem  to  Hyperion,  a 
Vision,  see  the  Appendix,  where  the  other  frag- 
ment is  printed. 


HYPERION 


199 


BOOK   I 

DEEP  in  the  shady  sadness  of  a  vale 

Far   sunken   from   the  healthy  breath   of 

morn, 
Far   from   the   fiery  noon,  and   eve's  one 

star, 

Sat  gray-hair'd  Saturn,  quiet  as  a  stone, 
Still  as  the  silence  round  about  his  lair; 
Forest  on  forest  hung  about  his  head 
Like  cloud  on  cloud.     No  stir  of  air  was 

there, 

Not  so  much  life  as  on  a  summer's  day 
Robs  not  one  light  seed  from  the  feather'd 

grass, 
But  where  the  dead  leaf  fell,  there  did  it 

rest.  10 

A  stream  went  voiceless  by,  still  deadened 

more 

By  reason  of  his  fallen  divinity 
Spreading  a   shade:  the   Naiad   'mid   her 

reeds 
Press'd  her  cold  finger  closer  to  her  lips. 

Along  the  margin-sand  large  foot-marks 

went, 
No   further   than  to   where   his   feet  had 

stray'd, 
And  slept  there  since.     Upon  the  sodden 

ground 
His  old  right  hand  lay  nerveless,  listless, 

dead, 
Unsceptred;  and  his  realmless  eyes  were 

closed  ; 
While  his  bow'd  head  seem'd  list'ning  to 

the  Earth,  20 

His  ancient  mother,  for  some  comfort  yet. 

It  seem'd  no  force  could  wake  him  from 

his  place; 
But  there  came  one,  who  with  a  kindred 

hand 
Touch'd  his  wide  shoulders,  after  bending 

low 
With  reverence,  though  to  one  who  knew 

it  not. 

She  was  a  Goddess  of  the  infant  world; 
By  her  in  stature  the  tall  Amazon 


Had   stood  a  pigmy's  height:    she  would 

have  ta'en 

Achilles  by  the  hair  and  bent  his  neck; 
Or  with  a  finger  stay'd  Ixion's  wheel.       30 
Her  face  was  large  as  that  of  Memphian 

sphinx, 

Pedestal'd  haply  in  a  palace-court, 
When  sages  look'd  to  Egypt  for  their  lore. 
But  oh  !  how  unlike  marble  was  that  face; 
How  beautiful,  if  sorrow  had  not  made 
Sorrow  more  beautiful  than  Beauty's  self. 
There  was  a  listening  fear  in  her  regard, 
As  if  calamity  had  but  begun; 
As  if  the  vanward  clouds  of  evil  days        39 
Had  spent  their  malice,  and  the  sullen  rear 
Was  with  its  stored  thunder  labouring  up. 
One  hand  she   press'd   upon    that   aching 

spot 
Where  beats  the  human  heart,  as  if  just 

there, 

Though  an  immortal,  she  felt  cruel  pain: 
The  other  upon  Saturn's  bended  neck 
She  laid,  and  to  the  level  of  his  ear 
Leaning  with  parted  lips,  some  words  she 

spake 

In  solemn  tenour  and  deep  organ  tone: 
Some  mourning  words,  which  in  our  feeble 

tongue 
Would  come  in  these  like  accents;  O  how 

frail  50 

To  that  large  utterance  of  the  early  Gods  ! 
*  Saturn,    look    up  !  —  though   wherefore, 

poor  old  King  ? 

I  have  no  comfort  for  thee,  no  not  one: 
I  cannot  say,  "  O  wherefore  sleepest  thou  ?  " 
For  heaven  is  parted  from  thee,  and  the 

earth 

Knows  thee  not,  thus  afflicted,  for  a  God; 
And  ocean  too,  with  all  its  solemn  noise, 
Has  from  thy  sceptre  pass'd;  and  all  the 

air 

Is  emptied  of  thine  hoary  majesty. 
Thy  thunder,  conscious   of  the  new  com- 
mand, 60 
Rumbles  reluctant  o'er  our  fallen  house; 
And  thy   sharp   lightning  in    unpractised 

hands 
Scorches  and  burns  our  once  serene  domain. 


20O 


HYPERION 


O  aching  time  !  O  moments  big  as  years  ! 
All  as  ye  pass  swell  out  the  monstrous 

truth, 

And  press  it  so  upon  our  weary  griefs 
That  unbelief  has  not  a  space  to  breathe. 
Saturn,   sleep    on:  —  O    thoughtless,   why 

did  I 

Thus  violate  thy  slumbrous  solitude  ? 
Why  should  I  ope  thy  melancholy  eyes  ?   70 
Saturn,  sleep   on !    while    at    thy    feet  I 

weep.' 

As  when,  upon  a  tranced  summer-night, 
Those    green -robed  senators    of    mighty 

woods, 
Tall  oaks,  branch-charmed  by  the  earnest 

stars, 
Dream,  and  so  dream  all  night  without  a 

stir, 

Save  from  one  gradual  solitary  gust 
Which  comes  upon  the  silence,  and  dies  off, 
As  if  the  ebbing  air  had  but  one  wave: 
So  came  these  words  and  went;  the  while 

in  tears 
She  touch'd  her  fair  large  forehead  to  the 

ground,  80 

Just  where  her  falling  hair  might  be  out- 


A  soft  and  silken  mat  for  Saturn's  feet. 
One  moon,  with  alteration  slow,  had  shed 
Her  silver  seasons  four  upon  the  night, 
And  still  these  two  were  postured  motion- 
less, 

Like  natural  sculpture  in  cathedral  cavern; 
The  frozen  God  still  couchant  on  the  earth, 
And  the  sad  Goddess  weeping  at  his  feet: 
Until  at  length  old  Saturn  lifted  up  89 

His  faded  eyes,  and  saw  his  kingdom  gone, 
And  all  the  gloom  and  sorrow  of  the  place, 
And  that  fair  kneeling  Goddess;  and  then 

spake, 
As  with  a  palsied  tongue,  and  while   his 

beard 

Shook  horrid  with  such  aspen-malady: 
•  O  tender  spouse  of  gold  Hyperion, 
Thea,  I  feel  thee  ere  I  see  thy  face; 
Look  up,  and  let  me  see  our  doom  in  it; 
Look  up,  and  tell  me  if  this  feeble  shape 


Is  Saturn's;   tell  me,  if  thou   hear'st  the 

voice 

Of  Saturn;  tell  me,  if  this  wrinkling  brow, 
Naked  and  bare  of  its  great  diadem,  ior 
Peers  like  the  front  of  Saturn.  Who  had 

power 
To  make  me  desolate  ?  whence  came  the 

strength  ? 

How  was  it  nurtured  to  such  bursting  forth, 
While  Fate  seem'd  strangled  in  my  nervous 

grasp  ? 

But  it  is  so;  and  I  am  smother'd  up, 
And  buried  from  all  godlike  exercise 
Of  influence  benign  on  planets  pale, 
Of  admonitions  to  the  winds  and  seas,     109 
Of  peaceful  sway  above  man's  harvesting, 
And  all  those  acts  which  Deity  supreme 
Doth  ease  its  heart  of  love  in.  —  I  am  gone 
Away  from  my  own  bosom:  I  have  left 
My  strong  identity,  my  real  self, 
Somewhere  between  the  throne,  and  where 

I  sit 
Here  on  this  spot  of  earth.     Search,  Thea, 

search  ! 
Open  thine  eyes  eterne,  and  sphere  them 

round 
Upon  all  space:  space  starr'd,  and  lorn  of 

light; 
Space   region'd   with  life-air,  and   barren 

void; 

Spaces  of  fire,  and  all  the  yawn  of  hell.  120 
Search,  Thea,  search  !  and  tell  me  if  thou 

seest 

A  certain  shape  or  shadow,  making  way 
With  wings  or  chariot  fierce  to  repossess 
A  heaven  he  lost  erewhile:  it  must  —  it 

must 

Be  of  ripe  progress  —  Saturn  must  be  King. 
Yes,  there  must  be  a  golden  victory; 
There  must  be  Gods  thrown   down,   and 

trumpets  blown 

Of  triumph  calm,  and  hymns  of  festival 
Upon  the  gold  clouds  metropolitan, 
Voices  of  soft  proclaim,  and  silver  stir     130 
Of  strings  in  hollow  shells;  and  there  shall 

be 

Beautiful   things   made  new,  for  the  sur- 
prise 


HYPERION 


201 


Of  the  sky-children;  I  will  give  command: 
Thea  !  Thea  !  Thea  !  where  is  Saturn  ?  ' 

This  passion  lifted  him  upon  his  feet, 
And  made  his  hands  to  struggle  in  the  air, 
His  Druid  locks   to  shake  and  ooze  with 

sweat, 

His  eyes  to  fever  out,  his  voice  to  cease. 
He  stood,  and  heard   not   Thea's  sobbing 

deep;  139 

A  little  time,  and  then  again  he  snatch'd 
Utterance  thus:  — '  But  cannot  I  create  ? 
Cannot  I  form  ?  Cannot  I  fashion  forth 
Another  world,  another  universe, 
To  overbear  and  crumble  this  to  nought  ? 
Where  is  another  chaos  ?  Where  ? '  —  That 

word 

Found  way  unto  Olympus,  and  made  quake 
The  rebel  three.  —  Thea  was  startled  up, 
And  in  her  bearing  was  a  sort  of  hope, 
As  thus  she  quick-voiced  spake,  yet  full  of 

awe. 

*  This  cheers  our  fallen  house :  come  to 
our  friends,  150 

0  Saturn !    come    away,   and  give   them 

heart; 

1  know  the   covert,   for   thence    came    I 

hither.' 
Thus  brief;  then  with  beseeching  eyes  she 

went 
With  backward  footing  through  the  shade 

a  space: 
He  follow'd,  and  she  turn'd  to  lead  the 

way 
Through  aged  boughs,  that  yielded  like  the 

mist 
Which   eagles    cleave    upmounting    from 

their  nest. 

Meanwhile  in  other  realms  big  tears 
were  shed, 

More  sorrow  like  to  this,  and  such  like 
woe, 

Too  huge  for  mortal  tongue  or  pen  of 
scribe:  160 

The  Titans  fierce,  self  -  hid,  or  prison- 
bound, 


Groan'd  for  the  old  allegiance  once  more, 
And  listen'd  in   sharp  pain   for   Saturn's 

voice. 
But  one  of  the  whole  mammoth-brood  still 

kept 

His  sov'reignty,  and  rule,  and  majesty; 
Blazing  Hyperion  on  his  orbed  fire 
Still  sat,  still  snuff 'd  the  incense,  teeming 

up 

From  man  to  the  sun's  God;  yet  unsecure  : 
For  as  among  us  mortals  omens  drear 
Fright  and  perplex,  so  also  shudder'd  he, 
Not  at  dog's  howl,  or  gloom-bird's  hated 

screech,  ,7/ 

Or  the  familiar  visiting  of  one 
Upon  the  first  toll  of  his  passing-bell, 
Or  prophesyings  of  the  midnight  lamp; 
But  horrors,  portion'd  to  a  giant  nerve, 
Oft    made    Hyperion  ache.      His   palace 

bright 

Bastion'd  with  pyramids  of  glowing  gold, 
And  touch'd  with  shade  of    bronzed  obe- 
lisks, 
Glared  a  blood-red  through  all  its  thousand 

courts, 

Arches,  and  domes,  and  fiery  galleries;    180 
And  all  its  curtains  of  Aurorian  clouds 
Flush'd  angerly:  while  sometimes  eagles' 

wings, 

Unseen  before  by  Gods  or  wondering  men, 
Darken'd  the  place;    and  neighing  steeds 

were  heard, 
Not  heard  before  by  Gods  or  wondering 

men. 
Also,    when    he    would    taste    the    spicy 

wreaths 

Of  incense,  breathed  aloft  from  sacred  hills, 
Instead  of  sweets,  his  ample  palate  took 
Savour  of  poisonous  brass  and  metal  sick: 
And  so,  when  harbour'd  in  the  sleepy  west, 
After  the  full  completion  of  fair  day,       191 
For  rest  divine  upon  exalted  couch 
And  slumber  in  the  arms  of  melody, 
He  paced  away  the  pleasant  hours  of  ease 
With  stride  colossal,  on  from  hall  to  hall; 
While  far  within  each  aisle  and  deep  re- 


His  winged  minions  in  close  clusters  stood, 


202 


HYPERION 


Amazed  and  full  of  fear;  like  anxious  men 
Who   on   wide   plains    gather   in  panting 

troops, 
When   earthquakes   jar  their  battlements 

and  towers.  200 

Even  now,  while  Saturn,  roused  from  icy 

trance, 
Went  step  for  step  with  Thea  through  the 

woods, 

Hyperion,  leaving  twilight  in  the  rear, 
Came  slope  upon  the  threshold  of  the  west; 
Then,  as  was  wont,  his  palace-door  flew  ope 
In  smoothest    silence,   save   what   solemn 

tubes, 
Blown   by   the   serious   Zephyrs,   gave  of 

sweet 

And  wandering  sounds,  slow-breathed  melo- 
dies; 

And  like  a  rose  in  vermeil  tint  and  shape, 
In  fragrance  soft,  and  coolness  to  the  eye,  210 
That  inlet  to  severe  magnificence 
Stood  full  blown,  for  the  God  to  enter  in. 

He  enter'd,  but  he  enter'd  full  of  wrath; 
His  flaming  robes  stream'd  out  beyond  his 

heels, 

And  gave  a  roar,  as  if  of  earthly  fire, 
That  scared  away  the  meek  ethereal  Hours 
And  made  their  dove-wings  tremble.     On 

he  flared, 
From  stately  nave  to  nave,  from  vault  to 

vault, 
Through  bowers  of  fragrant  and  enwreathed 

light, 

And    diamond  -  paved    lustrous    long    ar- 
cades, 220 
Until  he  reach'd  the  great  main  cupola; 
There  standing  fierce  beneath,  he  stampt 

his  foot, 
And  from  the  basements  deep  to  the  high 

towers 

Jarr'd  his  own  golden  region;  and  before 
The    quavering    thunder    thereupon     had 

ceased, 
His  voice  leapt  out,   despite  of    godlike 

curb, 
To  this  result:    fO   dreams   of  day  and 

night ! 


O  monstrous  forms  !     O  effigies  of  pain  ! 
O  spectres  busy  in  a  cold,  cold  gloom  ! 

0  lank-ear'd   Phantoms   of  black-weeded 

pools !  230 

Why  do  I  know  ye  ?  why  have  I  seen  ye  ? 

why 

Is  my  eternal  essence  thus  distraught 
To  see  and  to  behold  these  horrors  new  ? 
Saturn  is  fallen,  am  I  too  to  fall  ? 
Am  I  to  leave  this  haven  of  my  rest, 
This  cradle  of  my  glory,  this  soft  clime, 
This  calm  luxuriance  of  blissful  light, 
These  crystalline  pavilions,  and  pure  fanes, 
Of  all  my  lucent  empire  ?     It  is  left 
Deserted,  void,  nor  any  haunt  of  mine.    240 
The  blaze,  the  splendour,  and  the  symme- 

try, 

1  cannot  see  —  but  darkness,   death  and 

darkness. 

Even  here,  into  my  centre  of  repose, 
The  shady  visions  come  to  domineer, 
Insult,  and  blind,  and  stifle  up  my  pomp.  — 
Fall !  —  No,  by  Tellus  and  her  briny  robes  1 
Over  the  fiery  frontier  of  my  realms 
I  will  advance  a  terrible  right  arm 
Shall   scare   that   infant   thunderer,   rebel 

Jove, 

And  bid  old  Saturn  take  his  throne  again.' 
He  spake,  and  ceased,  the  while  a  heavier 

threat  251 

Held  struggle  with  his  throat,  but  came 

not  forth; 

For  as  in  theatres  of  crowded  men 
Hubbub     increases    more    they    call    out 

'Hush!' 

So  at  Hyperion's  words  the  Phantoms  pale 
Bestirr'd  themselves,  thrice   horrible  and 

cold; 

And  from  the  mirror'd  level  where  he  stood 
A  mist  arose,  as  from  a  scummy  marsh. 
At  this,  through  all  his  bulk  an  agony 
Crept    gradual,   from   the   feet  unto    the 

crown,  *6o 

Like  a  lithe  serpent  vast  and  muscular 
Making  slow  way,  with  head  and  neck  con- 
vulsed 
From  over-strained  might.     Released,  he 

fled 


HYPERION 


203 


To  the  eastern  gates,  and   full   six   dewy 

hours 
Before  the   dawn  in  season   due    should 

blush, 
He  breathed  fierce  breath  against  the  sleepy 

portals, 
Clear'd  them  of  heavy  vapours,  burst  them 

wide 

Suddenly  on  the  ocean's  chilly  streams. 
The  planet  orb  of  fire,  whereon  he  rode 
Each  day  from  east  to  west  the  heavens 

through,  270 

Spun  round  in  sable  curtaining  of  clouds; 
Not  therefore  veiled  quite,  blindfold,  and 

hid, 

But  ever  and  anon  the  glancing  spheres, 
Circles,  and  arcs,  and  broad-belting  colure, 
Glow'd   through,   and   wrought   upon   the 

muffling  dark 
Sweet-shaped   lightnings   from   the    nadir 

deep 

Up  to  the  zenith,  —  hieroglyphics  old, 
Which  sages  and  keen-eyed  astrologers 
Then  living  on  the   earth,  with  labouring 

thought 

Won  from  the  gaze  of  many  centuries:    280 
Now  lost,  save  what  we  find  on  remnants 

huge 
Of  stone,  or  marble  swart;    their  import 

gone, 
Their  wisdom  long  since  fled.  —  Two  wings 

this  orb 

Possess'd  for  glory,  two  fair  argent  wings, 
Ever  exalted  at  the  God's  approach: 
And    now,   from    forth    the    gloom    their 

plumes  immense 

Rose,  one  by  one,  till  all  outspreaded  were ; 
While  still  the  dazzling  globe  maintain'd 

eclipse, 

Awaiting  for  Hyperion's  command. 
Fain  would  he  have  commanded,  fain  took 

.throne  290 

And  bid  the  day  begin,  if  but  for  change. 
He  might  not:  —  No,  though   a  primeval 

God: 

The  sacred  seasons  might  not  be  disturb'd. 
Therefore  the  operations  of  the  dawn 
Stay'd  in  their  birth,  even  as  here  't  is  told. 


Those  silver  wings  expanded  sisterly, 
Eager  to  sail  their  orb;  the  porches  wide 
Open'd  upon  the  dusk  demesnes  of  night; 
And  the  bright  Titan,  phrenzied  with  new 

woes,  299 

Unused  to  bend,  by  hard  compulsion  bent 
His  spirit  to  the  sorrow  of  the  time ; 
And  all  along  a  dismal  rack  of  clouds, 
Upon  the  boundaries  of  day  and  night, 
He  stretch'd  himself  in  grief  and  radiance 

faint. 

There  as  he  lay,  the  Heaven  with  its  stars 
Look'd  down  on   him  with  pity,  and  the 

voice 

Of  Cffilus,  from  the  universal  space, 
Thus  whisper 'd  low  and  solemn  in  his  ear: 
'  O  brightest  of  my  children  dear,  earth-born 
And  sky-engendered,  Son  of  Mysteries    310 
All  unrevealed  even  to  the  powers 
Which  met  at  thy  creating;  at  whose  joys 
And  palpitations  sweet,  and  pleasures  soft, 
I,   Cffilus,   wonder,   how   they    came    and 

whence; 
And  at  the  fruits  thereof  what  shapes  they 

be, 

Distinct,  and  visible;  symbols  divine, 
Manifestations  of  that  beauteous  life 
Diffused  unseen  throughout  eternal  space: 
Of  these  new-form'd  art  thou,  oh  brightest 

child ! 

Of    these,    thy    brethren    and    the    God- 
desses !  320 
There  is  sad  feud  among  ye,  and  rebellion 
Of  son  against  his  sire.     I  saw  him  fall, 
I   saw   my   first-born    tumbled    from    his 

throne  ! 
To  me  his  arms  were  spread,  to  me  his 

voice 
Found  way  from  forth  the  thunders  round 

his  head  ! 

Pale  wox  I,  and  in  vapours  hid  my  face. 
Art  thou,  too,  near  such  doom  ?  vague  fear 

there  is: 

For  I  have  seen  my  sons  most  unlike  Gods. 
Divine  ye  were  created,  and  divine 
In  sad  demeanour,  solemn,  undisturb'd,  330 
Unruffled,  like  high  Gods,  ye  lived  and 

ruled : 


204 


HYPERION 


Now  I    behold    in    you  fear,   hope,  and 

wrath; 

Actions  of  rage  and  passion;  even  as 
I  see  them,  on  the  mortal  world  beneath, 
In   men  who  die.  —  This   is   the  grief,  O 

Son! 

Sad  sign  of  ruin,  sudden  dismay,  and  fall ! 
Yet  do  thou  strive;  as  thou  art  capable, 
As   thou  canst    move   about,    an  evident 

God; 

And  canst  oppose  to  each  malignant  hour 
Ethereal  presence:  —  I  am  but  a  voice;  340 
My  life  is  but  the  life  of  winds  and  tides, 
No   more    than   winds    and    tides    can   I 

avail:  — 
But  thou  canst.  —  Be  thou  therefore  in  the 

van 
Of  circumstance;  yea,   seize   the  arrow's 

barb 
Before  the  tense  string  murmur.  —  To  the 

earth! 
For  there  thou  wilt  find  Saturn,  and  his 

woes. 
Meantime  I  will  keep  watch  on  thy  bright 

sun, 

And  of  thy  seasons  be  a  careful  nurse.'  — 
Ere  half    this  region-whisper    had  come 

down, 

Hyperion  arose,  and  on  the  stars  350 

Lifted  his  curved  lids,  and  kept  them  wide 
Until  it  ceased;  and  still  he  kept  them 

wide: 

And  still  they  were  the  same  bright,  pa- 
tient stars. 
Then   with   a   slow  incline   of    his   broad 

breast, 

Like  to  a  diver  in  the  pearly  seas, 
Forward  he  stoop'd  over  the  airy  shore, 
And  plunged  all  noiseless  into  the  deep 

night. 

BOOK  II 

Just  at  the  self-same  beat  of  Time's  wide 

wings 

Hyperion  slid  into  the  rustled  air, 
And  Saturn   gain'd  with  Thea  that  sad 

place 


Where   Cybele    and    the    bruised    Titans 

mourn'd. 

It  was  a  den  where  no  insulting  light 
Could  glimmer  on  their  tears;  where  their 

own  groans 

They  felt,  but  heard  not,  for  the  solid  roar 
Of    thunderous    waterfalls    and    torrents 

hoarse, 

Pouring  a  constant  bulk,  uncertain  where. 
Crag  jutting  forth  to  crag,  and  rocks  that 

seem'd  I0 

Ever  as  if  just  rising  from  a  sleep, 
Forehead  to  forehead  held  their  monstrous 

horns; 

And  thus  in  thousand  hugest  phantasies 
Made  a  fit  roofing  to  this  nest  of  woe. 
Instead  of  thrones,  hard  flint  they  sat  upon, 
Couches  of  rugged  stone,  and  slaty  ridge 
Stubborn'd  with  iron.     All  were  not  assem- 
bled: 

Some  chain'd  in  torture,  and  some  wander- 
ing. 

Cceus,  and  Gyges,  and  Briareus, 
Typhon,  and  Dolor,  and  Porphyrion,         20 
With  many  more,  the  brawniest  in  assault, 
Were  pent  in  regions  of  laborious  breath; 
Dungeon'd  in  opaque  element  to  keep 
Their  clenched  teeth  still  clench'd,  and  all 

their  limbs 
Lock'd  up  like  veins  of  metal,  crampt  and 

screw'd; 

Without  a  motion,  save  of  their  big  hearts 
Heaving  in  pain,  and  horribly  convulsed 
With  sanguine,  feverous,  boiling  gurge  of 

pulse. 

Mnemosyne  was  straying  in  the  world; 
Far  from  her  moon  had  Phoebe  wandered;  30 
And  many  else  were  free  to  roam  abroad, 
But  for  the  main,  here  found  they  covert 

drear. 

Scarce  images  of  life,  one  here,  one  there, 
Lay   vast   and    edgeways;    like   a  dismal 

cirque 

Of  Druid  stones,  upon  a  forlorn  moor, 
When  the  chill  rain  begins  at  shut  of  eve, 
In  dull  November,  and  their  chancel  vault, 
The  Heaven  itself,  is  blinded  throughout 

night. 


HYPERION 


205 


Each  one  kept  shroud,  nor  to  his  neighbour 

gave 

Or  word,  or  look,  or  action  of  despair.       4o 
Creiis  was  one;  his  ponderous  iron  mace 
Lay  by  him,  and  a  shatter'd  rib  of  rock 
Told  of   his   rage,  ere  he  thus   sank   and 

pined. 

lapetus  another;  in  his  grasp, 
A  serpent's  plashy  neck;  its  barbed  tongue 
Squeezed  from  the  gorge,  and  all  its  un- 

curl'd  length 
Dead;  and  because  the  creature  could  not 

spit 

Its  poison  in  the  eyes  of  conquering  Jove. 
Next  Cottus:  prone  he  lay,  chin  uppermost, 
As  though  in  pain:  for  still  upon  the  flint  50 
He   ground    severe   his   skull,   with   open 

mouth 

And  eyes  at  horrid  working.     Nearest  him 
Asia,  born  of  most  enormous  Caf, 
Who  cost  her  mother  Tellus  keener  pangs, 
Though  feminine,  than  any  of  her  sons: 
More  thought  than  woe  was  in  her  dusky 

face, 

For  she  was  prophesying  of  her  glory; 
And  in  her  wide  imagination  stood 
Palm-shaded  temples,  and  high  rival  fanes, 
By  Oxus  or  in  Ganges'  sacred  isles.  60 

Even  as  Hope  upon  her  anchor  leans, 
So  leant  she,  not  so  fair,  upon  a  tusk 
Shed  from  the  broadest  of  her  elephants. 
Above  her,  on  a  crag's  uneasy  shelve, 
Upon  his  elbow  raised,  all  prostrate  else, 
Shadow'd  Enceladus;  once  tame  and  mild 
As  grazing  ox  unworried  in  the  meads; 
Now  tiger-passion'd,  lion-thoughted,  wroth, 
He  meditated,  plotted,  and  even  now 
Was   hurling  mountains    in    that    second 

war,  7o 

Not  long  delay'd,  that  scared  the  younger 

Gods 
To  hide  themselves  in  forms  of  beast  and 

bird. 

Not  far  hence  Atlas;  and  beside  him  prone 
Phorcus,  the  sire  of  Gorgons.   Neighbour'd 

close 

Oceanus,  and  Tethys,  in  whose  lap 
Sobb'd  Clymene  among  her  tangled  hair. 


In  midst  of  all  lay  Themis,  at  the  feet 
Of  Ops  the  queen  all  clouded  round  from 

sight; 

No  shape  distinguishable,  more  than  when 
Thick  night  confounds  the  pine-tops  with 

the  clouds:  80 

And  many  else  whose  names  may  not  be 

told. 
For  when  the  Muse's  wings  are  air-ward 

spread, 
Who  shall  delay  her   flight?    And    she 

must  chant 
Of  Saturn,  and  his  guide,  who  now  had 

climb'd 
With  damp  and  slippery  footing  from  a 

depth 

More  horrid  still.     Above  a  sombre  cliff 
Their  heads  appear'd,  and  up  their  stature 

grew 
Till  on  the  level  height  their  steps  found 


Then  Thea  spread  abroad  her  trembling 

arms 

Upon  the  precincts  of  this  nest  of  pain,     90 
And   sidelong  fix'd  her  eye   on  Saturn's 

face: 
There  saw  she  direst  strife;  the  supreme 

God 

At  war  with  all  the  frailty  of  grief, 
Of  rage,  of  fear,  anxiety,  revenge, 
Remorse,  spleen,  hope,  but  most  of  all  de- 
spair. 
Against  these  plagues  he  strove  in  vain: 

for  Fate 

Had  pour'd  a  mortal  oil  upon  his  head, 
A  disanointing  poison:  so  that  Thea, 
Affrighted,  kept  her  still,  and  let  him  pass 
First  onwards  in,  among  the  fallen  tribe.  100 

As  with  us  mortal  men,  the  laden  heart 
Is  persecuted  more,  and  fever'd  more, 
When  it  is  nighing  to  the  mournful  house 
Where  other  hearts  are  sick  of  the  same 

bruise ; 

So  Saturn,  as  he  walk'd  into  the  midst, 
Felt  faint,  and  would  have  sunk  among  the 

rest, 
But  that  he  met  Enceladus's  eye, 


206 


HYPERION 


Whose   mightiness,   and   awe   of    him,   at 

once 

Came  like  an  inspiration;  and  he  shouted, 
1  Titans,  behold  your  God  ! '  at  which  some 

groan'd;  no 

Some  started   on    their  feet;    some    also 

shouted; 
Some  wept,  some  wail'd  —  all  bow'd  with 

reverence ; 

And  Ops,  uplifting  her  black  folded  veil, 
Show'd  her  pale  cheeks,  and  all  her  fore- 
head wan, 
Her  eyebrows   thin  and  jet,   and   hollow 

eyes. 
There  is  a  roaring    in  the    bleak-grown 

pines 
When  WT inter  lifts  his  voice;  there  is  a 

noise 

Among  immortals  when  a  God  gives  sign, 
With   hushing  finger,   how   he   means   to 

load 

His  tongue  with  the  full  weight  of  utter- 
less  thought,  120 
With  thunder,  and  with  music,  and  with 

pomp: 
Such  noise  is  like  the  roar  of  bleak-grown 

pines; 
Which,  when  it  ceases  in  this  mountain'd 

world, 

No  other  sound  succeeds;  but  ceasing  here, 
Among  these  fallen,  Saturn's  voice  there- 
from 

Grew  up  like  organ,  that  begins  anew 
Its   strain,   when   other    harmonies,   stopt 

short, 

Leave  the  dinn'd  air  vibrating  silverly. 
Thus  grew  it  up: — 'Not  in  my  own  sad 

breast, 
Which  is  its  own  great  judge  and  searcher 

out,  130 

Can  I  find  reason  why  ye  should  be  thus: 
Not  in  the  legends  of  the  first  of  days, 
Studied  from  that  old  spirit-leaved  book 
Which  starry  Uranus  with  finger  bright 
Saved  from  the  shores  of  darkness,  when 

the  waves 
Low-ebb'd    still    hid    it    up    in    shallow 

gloom;  — 


And  the  which  book  ye  know  I  ever  kept 
For    my    firm-based    footstool:  —  Ah,   in- 
firm ! 

Not  there,  nor  in  sign,  symbol,  or  portent 
Of  element,  earth,  water,  air,  and  fire,  — 
At  war,  at  peace,  or  inter-quarrelling       141 
One  against  one,  or  two,  or  three,  or  all 
Each  several  one  against  the  other  three, 
As  fire  with  air  loud  warring  when  rain- 
floods 
Drown  both,  and  press  them  both  against 

earth's  face, 

Where,  finding  sulphur,  a  quadruple  wrath 
Unhinges  the   poor  world;  —  not   in   that 

strife, 
Wherefrom  I  take  strange  lore,  and  read 

it  deep, 

Can  I  find  reason  why  ye  should  be  thus: 
No,  nowhere  can  unriddle,  though  I  search, 
And  pore  on  Nature's  universal  scroll      151 
Even  to  swooning,  why  ye,  Divinities, 
The  first-born  of  all  shaped  and  palpable 

Gods, 

Should  cower  beneath  what,  in  comparison, 
Is  untremendous  might.  Yet  ye  are  here, 
O'erwhelm'd,  and  spurn'd,  and  batter'd,  ye 

are  here  ! 
O    Titans,   shall    I    say    "Arise!"  — Ye 

groan: 
Shall     I     say     "  Crouch  ! "  —  Ye     groan. 

What  can  I  then  ? 

O  Heaven  wide  !  O  unseen  parent  dear  ! 
What  can  I?     Tell  me,  all  ye  brethren 
Gods,  160 

How  we  can  war,  how  engine  our  great 
wrath  ! 

0  speak  your  counsel  now,  for  Saturn's  ear 
Is  all  a-hunger'd.     Thou,  Oceanus, 
Ponderest  high  and  deep;  and  in  thy  face 

1  see,  astonied,  that  severe  content 
Which  comes  of  thought  and  musing:  give 

us  help  ! ' 

So  ended  Saturn;  and  the  God  of  the 

Sea, 

Sophist  and  sage,  from  no  Athenian  grove, 
But  cogitation  in  his  watery  shades, 
Arose,  with  locks  not  oozy,  and  began,     17* 


HYPERION 


207 


In  murmurs,  which  his  first-endeavouring 

tongue 
Caught   infant-like    from   the    far-foamed 

sands. 

'  O  ye,  whom  wrath  consumes  !  who,  pas- 
sion-stung, 

Writhe  at  defeat,  and  nurse  your  agonies  ! 
Shut  up  your  senses,  stifle  up  your  ears, 
My  voice  is  not  a  bellows  unto  ire. 
Yet  listen,   ye  who   will,   whilst   I   bring 

proof 

How  ye,  perforce,  must  be  content  to  stoop; 
And  in  the  proof  much  comfort  will  I  give, 
If  ye  will  take  that  comfort  in  its  truth.  180 
We  fall  by  course  of  Nature's  law,  not 

force 

Of  thunder,  or  of  Jove.    Great  Saturn,  thou 
Hast  sifted  well  the  atom-universe; 
But  for  this  reason,  that  thou  art  the  King, 
And  only  blind  from  sheer  supremacy, 
One  avenue  was  shaded  from  thine  eyes, 
Through  which  I  wander'd  to  eternal  truth. 
And  first,  as  thou  wast  not  the  first  of  pow- 
ers, 

So  art  thou  not  the  last;  it  cannot  be; 
Thou  art  not  the  beginning  nor  the  end.  190 
From  chaos  and  parental  darkness  came 
Light,   the    first   fruits   of   that    intestine 

broil, 
That  sullen  ferment,  which  for  wondrous 

ends 
Was   ripening  in   itself.     The   ripe    hour 

came, 

And  with  it  light,  and  light  engendering 
Upon  its  own  producer,  forthwith  touch' d 
The  whole  enormous  matter  into  life. 
Upon  that  very  hour,  our  parentage, 
The  Heavens  and  the  Earth,  were  manifest: 
Then  thou   first-born,   and   we   the   giant- 
race,  200 
Found  ourselves  ruling  new  and  beauteous 

realms. 
Now  comes  the  pain  of  truth,  to  whom  't  is 

pain; 

O  folly  !  for  to  bear  all  naked  truths, 
And  to  envisage  circumstance,  all  calm, 
That  is   the   top   of  sovereignty.      Mark 
well! 


As  Heaven  and  Earth  are  fairer,  fairer  far 
Than  Chaos  and  blank   Darkness,  though 

once  chiefs; 
And  as  we  show  beyond  that  Heaven  and 

Earth 

In  form  and  shape  compact  and  beautiful, 
In  will,  in  action  free,  companionship,      210 
And  thousand  other  signs  of  purer  life; 
So  on  our  heels  a  fresh  perfection  treads, 
A  power  more  strong  in  beauty,  born  of  us 
And  fated  to  excel  us,  as  we  pass 
In  glory  that  old  Darkness:  nor  are  we 
Thereby  more   conquer' d,  than  by  us  the 

rule 
Of   shapeless  Chaos.     Say,  doth   the   dull 

soil 

Quarrel  with  the  proud  forests  it  hath  fed, 
And  feedeth  still,  more  comely  than  itself  ? 
Can  it  deny  the  chiefdom  of  green  groves  ? 
Or  shall  the  tree  be  envious  of  the  dove    221 
Because  it  cooeth,  and  hath  snowy  wings 
To  wander  wherewithal  and  find  its  joys  ? 
We   are   such   forest-trees,    and   our    fair 

boughs 

Have  bred  forth,  not  pale  solitary  doves, 
But  eagles  goldeu-feather'd,  who  do  tower 
Above  us  in  their  beauty,  and  must  reign 
In  right  thereof;  for  't  is  the  eternal  law 
That   first  in  beauty   should   be    first   in 

might:  229 

Yea,  by  that  law,  another  race  may  drive 
Our  conquerors  to  mourn  as  we  do  now. 
Have  ye  beheld  the  young  God  of  the  Seas, 
My  dispossessor  ?    Have  ye  seen  his  face  ? 
Have  ye  beheld  his  chariot,  foam'd  along 
By  noble  winged  creatures  he  hath  made  ? 
I  saw  him  on  the  calmed  waters  scud, 
With  such  a  glow  of  beauty  in  his  eyes, 
That  it  enforced  me  to  bid  sad  farewell 
To  all  my  empire;  farewell  sad  I  took, 
And  hither  came,  to  see  how  dolorous  fate 
Had  wrought  upon  ye;  and  how  I  might 

best  241 

Give  consolation  in  this  woe  extreme. 
Receive  the  truth,  and  let  it  be  your  balm.' 

Whether  through   poz'd  conviction,   or 
disdain, 


208 


HYPERION 


They  guarded  silence,  when  Oceanus 
Left  murmuring,  what  deepest  thought  can 

tell? 

But  so  it  was,  none  answer'd  for  a  space, 
Save  one  whom  none  regarded,  Clymene: 
And  yet  she  answer'd  not,  only  complain'd, 
With    hectic    lips,   and   eyes   up  -  looking 

mild,  250 

Thus  wording  timidly  among  the  fierce: 
*  O  Father,  I  am  here  the  simplest  voice, 
And  all  my  knowledge  is  that  joy  is  gone, 
And  this  thing  woe  crept  in   among   our 

hearts, 

There  to  remain  for  ever,  as  I  fear: 
I  would  not  bode  of  evil,  if  I  thought 
So  weak  a  creature  could  turn  off  the  help 
Which  by  just  right  should  come  of  mighty 

Gods; 

Yet  let  me  tell  my  sorrow,  let  me  tell 
Of   what  I  heard,  and  how  it  made   me 

weep,  260 

And  know  that  we  had  parted  from  all 

hope. 

I  stood  upon  a  shore,  a  pleasant  shore, 
Where  a  sweet  clime  was  breathed  from  a 

land 
Of    fragrance,   quietness,  and   trees,   and 

flowers. 

Full  of  calm  jpy  it  was,  as  I  of  grief; 
Too  full  of  joy  and  soft  delicious  warmth; 
So  that  I  felt  a  movement  in  my  heart 
To  chide,  and  to  reproach  that  solitude 
With  songs  of  misery,  music  of  our  woes; 
And  sat  me  down,  and   took  a  mouthed 

shell  270 

And  murmur'd  into  it,  and  made  melody  — 

0  melody  no  more  !  for  while  I  sang, 
Anil  with  poor  skill  let  pass  into  the  breeze 
The  dull  shell's  echo,  from  a  bowery  strand 
Just  opposite,  an  island  of  the  sea, 
There  came  enchantment  with  the  shifting 

wind, 

That  did  both  drown  and  keep  alive  my 
ears. 

1  threw  my  shell  away  upon  the  sand, 
And  a  wave  fill'd  it,  as  my  sense  was  fill'd 
With  that  new  blissful  golden  melody.    280 
A  living  death  was  in  each  gush  of  sounds, 


Each  family  of  rapturous  hurried  notes, 
That  fell,  one  after  one,  yet  all  at  once, 
Like  pearl  beads  dropping  sudden  from 

their  string: 

And  then  another,  then  another  strain, 
Each  like  a  dove  leaving  its  olive  perch, 
With  music  wing'd  instead  of  silent  plumes, 
To  hover  round   my  head,  and  make  me 

sick 

Of  joy  and  grief  at  once.  Grief  overcame, 
And  I  was  stopping  up  my  frantic  ears,  290 
When,  past  all  hindrance  of  my  trembling 

hands, 
A  voice   came   sweeter,  sweeter  than  all 

tune, 

And  still  it  cried,  "  Apollo  !  young  Apollo  ! 
The  morning-bright  Apollo  !  young  Apol- 
lo !" 

I  fled,  it  f ollow'd  me,  and  cried,  "  Apollo  ! " 
O  Father,  and  O  Brethren,  had  ye  felt 
Those  pains  of  mine;  O  Saturn,  hadst  thou 

felt, 

Ye  would  not  call  this  too  indulged  tongue 
Presumptuous,  in  thus  venturing  to  be 

heard.' 

So  far  her  voice  flow'd  on,  like  timorous 
brook  300 

That,  lingering  along  a  pebbled  coast, 
Doth  fear  to  .meet  the  sea:  but  sea  it  met, 
And    shudder'd;     for    the    overwhelming 

voice 

Of  huge  Enceladus  swallow'd  it  in  wrath: 
The  ponderous  syllables,  like  sullen  waves 
In  the  half-glutted  hollows  of  reef-rocks, 
Came  booming  thus,  while  still  upon  his 

arm 

He  lean'd;  not  rising,  from  supreme  con- 
tempt. 

'  Or  shall  we  listen  to  the  over- wise, 
Or  to  the  over-foolish  giant,  Gods  ?          3 10 
Not  thunderbolt  on  thunderbolt,  till  all 
That  rebel    Jove's  whole    armoury   were 

spent, 
Not  world  on  world  upon  these  shoulders 

piled, 

Could  agonize  me  more  than  baby- words 
In  midst  of  this  dethronement  horrible. 


HYPERION 


209 


Speak  !  roar  !  shout !  yell !   ye  sleepy  Ti- 
tans all. 

Do  ye  forget  the  blows,  the  buffets  vile  ? 
Are  ye  not  smitten  by  a  youngling  arm  ? 
Dost  thou  forget,  sham  Monarch  of  the 

Waves, 
Thy  scalding  in  the  seas  ?     What !  have  I 

roused  320 

Your  spleens  with  so  few  simple  words  as 

these  ? 

O  joy  !  for  now  I  see  ye  are  not  lost: 
O  joy  !  for  now  I  see  a  thousand  eyes 
Wide -glaring  for  revenge.'  —  As  this  he 

said, 

He  lifted  up  his  stature  vast,  and  stood, 
Still  without  intermission  speaking  thus: 
'  Now  ye  are  flames,  I  '11  tell  you  how  to 

burn, 

And  purge  the  ether  of  our  enemies; 
How  to  feed  fierce  the  crooked  stings  of  fire, 
And    singe   away   the   swollen    clouds   of 

Jove,  330 

Stifling  that  puny  essence  in  its  tent. 
O  let  him  feel  the  evil  he  hath  done; 
For  though  I  scorn  Oceanus's  lore, 
Much  pain  have  I  for  more  than  loss  of 

realms : 
The  days  of  peace  and   slumberous  calm 

are  fled; 

Those  days,  all  innocent  of  scathing  war, 
When  all  the  fair  Existences  of  heaven 
Came  open-eyed  to  guess  what  we  would 


That  was  before  our  brows  were  taught  to 

frown, 
Before   our  lips    knew   else    but    solemn 

sounds;  340 

That   was    before    we    knew   the   winged 

thing, 

Victory,  might  be  lost,  or  might  be  won, 
And  be  ye  mindful  that  Hyperion, 
Our    brightest     brother,    still     is     undis- 

g^aced  — 
Hyperion,  lo  !  bis  radiance  is  here  ! ' 

All  eyes  were  on  Enceladus's  face, 
A.nd   they  beheld,  while   still   Hyperion's 
name 


Flew  from  his  lips  up  to  the  vaulted  rocks, 
A  pallid  gleam  across  his  features  stern: 
Not  savage,  for  he  saw  full  many  a  God 
Wroth  as  himself.     He  look'd  upon  them 

all,  351 

And  in  each  face  he  saw  a  gleam  of  light, 
But  splendider  in   Saturn's,   whose    hoar 

locks 

Shone  like  the  bubbling  foam  about  a  keel 
When  the  prow  sweeps  into  a  midnight 

cove. 

In  pale  and  silver  silence  they  remain'd, 
Till  suddenly  a  splendour,  like  the  morn, 
Pervaded  all  the  beetling  gloomy  steeps, 
All  the  sad  spaces  of  oblivion, 
And  every  gulf,  and  every  chasm  old,      360 
And  every  height,  and  every  sullen  depth, 
Voiceless,  or  hoarse  with   loud  tormented 

streams : 

And  all  the  everlasting  cataracts, 
And  all  the  headlong  torrents  far  and  near, 
Mantled    before    in    darkness    and    huge 

shade, 

Now  saw  the  light  and  made  it  terrible. 
It  was  Hyperion:  — a  granite  peak 
His  bright  feet  touch'd,  and  there  he  stay'd 

to  view 

The  misery  his  brilliance  had  betray'd 
To  the  most  hateful  seeing  of  itself.         370 
Golden  his  hair  of  short  Numidian  curl, 
Regal  his  shape  majestic,  a  vast  shade 
In  midst  of  his  own  brightness,  like  the 

bulk 

Of  Memnon's  image  at  the  set  of  sun 
To   one   who   travels    from    the    dusking 

East: 
Sighs,  too,  as  mournful  as  that  Memnon's 

harp, 

He  utter'd,  while  his  hands  contemplative 
He  press'd  together,  and  in  silence  stood. 
Despondence  seized  again  the  fallen  Gods 
At  sight  of  the  dejected  King  of  Day,     380 
And  many  hid  their  faces  from  the  light: 
But  fierce  Enceladus  sent  forth  his  eyes 
Among  the    brotherhood;    and,    at    their 

glare, 

Uprose  lapetus,  and  Cretis  too, 
And  Phorcus,  sea-born,  and  together  strode 


2IO 


HYPERION 


To  where  he  tower'd  on  his  eminence. 
There  those  four  shouted  forth  old  Saturn's 

name; 
Hyperion  from   the   peak   loud   answered 

'  Saturn  ! ' 

Saturn  sat  near  the  Mother  of  the  Gods, 
In  whose  face  was  no  joy,  though  all  the 

Gods  390 

Gave  from  their  hollow  throats  the  name 

of  «  Saturn  ! ' 

BOOK  III 

Thus  in  alternate  uproar  and  sad  peace, 

Amazed  were  those  Titans  utterly. 

O  leave  them,  Muse  !     O  leave  them  to 

their  woes; 
For  thou  art  weak  to  sing  such  tumults 

dire: 

A  solitary  sorrow  best  befits 
Thy  lips,  and  antheming  a  lonely  grief. 
Leave  them,  O  Muse  !  for  thou  anon  wilt 

find 

Many  a  fallen  old  Divinity 
Wandering  in  vain  about  bewildered  shores. 
Meantime  touch  piously  the  Delphic  harp, 
And    not    a    wind    of    heaven    but    will 

breathe  n 

In  aid  soft  warble  from  the  Dorian  flute; 
For  lo  !  't  is  for  the  Father  of  all  verse. 
Flush  every  thing  that  hath  a  vermeil  hue, 
Let  the  rose  glow  intense  and  warm  the  air, 
And  let  the  clouds  of  even  and  of  morn 
Float  in  voluptuous  fleeces  o'er  the  hills; 
Let  the  red  wine  within  the  goblet  boil, 
Cold  as  a  bubbling  well;   let   faint-lipp'd 

shells, 

On  sands  or  in  great  deeps,  vermilion  turn 
Through  all  their  labyrinths;   and  let  the 

maid  21 

Blush  keenly,  as  with  some  warm  kiss  sur- 
prised. 

Chief  isle  of  the  embowered  Cyclades, 
Rejoice,  O  Delos,  with  thine  olives  green, 
And  poplars,  and  lawn-shading  palms,  and 

beech, 
In  which  the  Zephyr  breathes  the  loudest 

song, 


And   hazels   thick,   dark-stemm'd  beneath 

the  shade: 

Apollo  is  once  more  the  golden  theme  ! 
Where  was  he,  when  the  Giant  of  the  Sun 
Stood  bright,  amid  the  sorrow  of  his  peers  ? 
Together  had  he  left  his  mother  fair          3 1 
And  his  twin-sister  sleeping  in  their  bower, 
And   in   the    morning    twilight   wandered 

forth 

Beside  the  osiers  of  a  rivulet, 
Full  ankle-deep  in  lilies  of  the  vale. 
The   nightingale   had   ceased,  and   a   few 


Were  lingering  in  the  heavens,  while  the 

thrush 
Began  calm-throated.     Throughout  all  the 

isle 

There  was  no  covert,  no  retired  cave 
Unhaunted   by   the    murmurous   noise   of 
waves,  40 

Though  scarcely  heard  in  many  a  green  re- 
cess. 
He  listen'd,  and  he  wept,  and  his  bright 

tears 
Went  trickling  down  the   golden  bow  he 

held. 

Thus  with  half -shut  suffused  eyes  he  stood, 
While  from  beneath  some  cumbrous  boughs 

hard  by 

With  solemn  step  an  awful  Goddess  came, 
And  there  was  purport   in   her  looks  for 

him, 

Which  he  with  eager  guess  began  to  read 
Perplex'd,  the  while  melodiously  he  said: 
*  How  cam'st  thou  over  the  unfooted  sea  ? 
Or   hath   that   antique    mien    and    robed 
form  5 * 

Moved  in  these  vales  invisible  till  now  ? 
Sure  I  have  heard  those  vestments  sweep' 

ing  o'er 

The  fallen  leaves,  when  I  have  sat  alone 
In  cool  mid-forest.     Surely  I  have  traced 
The  rustle  of  those  ample  skirts  about 
These  grassy  solitudes,  and  seen  the  flow- 
ers 
Lift  up  their  heads,  and  still  the  whisper 

pass'd. 
Goddess  !    I  have  beheld  those  eyes  before, 


HYPERION 


211 


And  their  eternal  calm,  and  all  that  face, 
Or  I  have  dream'd.'  — '  Yes,'  said  the  su- 
preme shape,  61 
'Thou  hast  dream'd  of  me;  and  awaking 

up 

Didst  find  a  lyre  all  golden  by  thy  side, 
Whose  strings  touch'd  by  thy  fingers,  all 

the  vast 

Unwearied  ear  of  the  whole  universe 
Listen'd  in  pain  and  pleasure  at  the  birth 
Of  such   new  tuneful   wonder.      Is 't  not 

strange 
That  thou  shouldst  weep,  so  gifted  ?     Tell 

me,  youth, 

What  sorrow  thou  canst  feel;  for  I  am  sad 
When  thou  dost  shed  a  tear:  explain  thy 

griefs  70 

To  one  who  in  this  lonely  isle  hath  been 
The  watcher  of  thy  sleep  and  hours  of  life, 
From  the  young  day  when  first  thy  infant 

hand 
Pluck'd  witless  the  weak  flowers,  till  thine 

arm 

Could  bend  that  bow  heroic  to  all  times. 
Show    thy   heart's    secret   to    an    ancient 

Power 

Who  hath  forsaken  old  and  sacred  thrones 
For  prophecies  of  thee,  and  for  the  sake 
Of  loveliness  new-born.'  —  Apollo  then, 
With  sudden  scrutiny  and  gloomless  eyes, 
Thus  answer'd,  while  his  white  melodious 

throat  8 r 

Throbb'd  with    the  syllables:  —  *  Mnemo- 
syne ! 
Thy  name  is  on  my  tongue,  I  know  not 

how; 
Why  should  I  tell  thee  what  thou  so  well 

seest  ? 
Why  should  I  strive  to  show  what   from 

thy  lips 
Would  come  no  mystery  ?     For  me,  dark, 

dark, 

And  painful  vile  oblivion  seals  my  eyes: 
I  strive  to  search  wherefore  I  am  so  sad, 
Until  a  melancholy  numbs  my  limbs; 
And  then  upon  the  grass  I  sit,  and  moan,     90 
Like  one  who   once   had  wings.  —  O  why 

should  I 


Feel  cursed  and  thwarted,  when  the  liege- 
less  air 

Yields  to  my  step  aspirant  ?  why  should  I 
Spurn    the  green   turf  as   hateful   to   my 

feet? 
Goddess  benign,  point  forth  some  unknown 

thing: 

Are  there  not  other  regions  than  this  isle  ? 
What  are  the  stars  ?     There  is  the  sun,  the 

sun  ! 
And   the   most  patient    brilliance   of  the 

moon  ! 
And  stars  by   thousands  !     Point   me  out 

the  way 

To  any  one  particular  beauteous  star,       100 
And  I  will  flit  into  it  with  my  lyre, 
And  make  its  silvery  splendour  pant  with 

bliss. 
I  have  heard  the  cloudy  thunder:  Where 

is  power  ? 

Whose  hand,  whose  essence,  what  divinity 
Makes  this  alarum  in  the  elements, 
While  I  here  idle  listen  on  the  shores 
In  fearless  yet  in  aching  ignorance  ? 
O  tell  me,  lonely  Goddess,  by  thy  harp, 
That  waileth  every  morn  and  eventide, 
Tell    me   why  thus   I  rave,   about    these 

groves  !  no 

Mute  thou  remainest  —  Mute  !  yet  I  can 

read 

A  wondrous  lesson  in  thy  silent  face  : 
Knowledge  enormous  makes  a  God  of  me. 
Names,  deeds,  gray  legends,  dire   events, 

rebellions, 

Majesties,  sovran  voices,  agonies, 
Creations  and  destroyings,  all  at  once 
Pour  into  the  wide  hollows  of  my  brain, 
And  deify  me,  as  if  some  blithe  wine 
Or  bright  elixir  peerless  I  had  drunk,      u9 
And  so  become  immortal.'  —  Thus  the  God, 
While  his  enkindled  eyes,  with  level  glance 
Beneath  his  white  soft  temples,  steadfast 

kept 

Trembling  with  light  upon  Mnemosyne. 
Soon  wild  commotions  shook  him,  and  made 

flush 

All  the  immortal  fairness  of  his  limbs: 
Most  like  the  struggle  at  the  gate  of  death; 


212 


HYPERION 


Or  liker  still  to  one  who  should  take  leave 
Of  pale  immortal  death,  and  with  a  pang 
As  hot  as  death's  is  chill,  with  fierce  con- 
vulse 

Die  into  life :  so  young  Apollo  anguish'd :  130 
His  very  hair,  his  golden  tresses  famed 
Kept  undulation  round  his  eager  neck. 


During  the  pain  Mnemosyne  upheld 

Her  arms  as  one   who  prophesied.  —  At 

length 
Apollo   shriek'd;  —  and   lo  !   from  all  his 

limbs 
Celestial 


TO   AUTUMN 


In  a  letter  to  Reynolds,  written  from  Win- 
chester, September  22,  1819,  Keats  jots  down 
these  sentences :  '  How  beautiful  the  season  is 
now  —  How  fine  the  air.  A  temperate  sharp- 
ness about  it.  Really,  without  joking,  chaste 
weather —  Dian  skies  —  I  never  liked  stubble- 
fields  so  much  as  now  —  Aye,  better  than  the 


chilly  green  of  the  spring.  Somehow,  a  stub- 
ble-field looks  warm  in  the  same  way  that  some 
pictures  look  warm.  This  struck  me  so  much 
in  my  Sunday's  walk  that  I  composed  upon  it.' 
These  autumn  days  in  Winchester  were  the  last 
of  happy  health  for  Keats.  The  poem  was  in- 
cluded in  the  1820  volume. 


SEASON  of  mists  and  mellow  fruitfulness, 

Close  bosom-friend  of  the  maturing  sun; 

Conspiring  with  him  how  to  load  and  bless 

With  fruit   the   vines    that   round    the 

thatch-eaves  run; 

To  bend  with  apples  the  moss'd   cottage- 
trees, 
And  fill  all  fruit  with   ripeness  to  the 

core; 
To   swell  the  gourd,  and    plump  the 

hazel  shells 
With   a   sweet   kernel;  to   set   budding 

more, 

And  still  more,  later  flowers  for  the  bees, 
Until   they  think   warm  days   will   never 


For   Summer   has   o'er-brimm'd  their 
clammy  cells. 


Who  hath  not  seen  thee  oft  amid  thy  store  ? 
Sometimes   whoever   seeks  abroad  may 

find 

Thee  sitting  careless  on  a  granary  floor, 
Thy  hair  soft-lifted  by  the  winnowing 

wind; 

Or  on  a  half-reap'd  furrow  sound  asleep, 
Drowsed  with  the  f rzme  of  poppies,  while 
thy  book 


Spares   the   next    swath    and   all  its 

twined  flowers: 

And  sometimes  like  a  gleaner  thou  dost  keep 
Steady  thy  laden  head  across  a  brook; 
Or  by  a  cider-press,  with  patient  look, 
Thou  watchest  the  last  oozings,  hours 
by  hours. 

Ill 
Where  are   the   songs  of   Spring?      Ay, 

where  are  they  ? 
Think  not  of  them,  thou  hast  thy  music 

too, — 
While  barred  clouds  bloom  the  soft-dying 

day, 
And  touch  the  stubble-plains  with  rosy 

hue; 
Then  in  a  wailful  choir  the   small  gnats 

mourn 

Among  the  river  sallows,  borne  aloft 
Or  sinking  as  the  light  wind  lives  or 

dies; 
And   full-grown    lambs    loud  bleat  from 

hilly  bourn; 
Hedge-crickets  sing;  and  now  with  treble 

soft 

The  redbreast  whistles  from  a  garden- 
croft, 

And  gathering  swallows  twitter  in  the 
skies. 


VERSES   TO   FANNY   BRAWNE 


Although  these  are  not  the  only  poems 
which  owe  their  origin  to  Keats's  consuming 
passion,  they  are  grouped  here  because,  ap- 

SONNET 

The  date  1819  is  appended  to  this  sonnet  in 
Life,  Letters  and  Literary  Remains.  Mr.  For- 
man  connects  it  with  a  letter  written  to  Fanny 
Brawne,  October  11,  1819. 

THE  day  is  gone,  and  all  its  sweets  are 

gone  ! 
Sweet  voice,  sweet  lips,  soft  hand,  and 

softer  breast, 

Warm  breath,  light  whisper,  tender  semi- 
tone, 
Bright    eyes,   accomplish'd    shape,  and 

lang'rous  waist  ! 

Faded  the  flower  and  all  its  budded  charms, 
Faded  the  sight  of  beauty  from  my  eyes, 
Faded  the  shape  of  beauty  from  my  arms, 
Faded    the    voice,    warmth,    whiteness, 

paradise  ! 
Vanish'd  unseasonably  at  shut  of  eve, 

When  the  dusk  holiday  —  or  holinight  — 
Of  fragrant-curtain'd  love  begins  to  weave 
The  woof  of  darkness  thick,  for  hid  de- 
light: 

But,  as  I  've  read  love's  missal  through  to- 
day, 
He  '11  let  me  sleep,  seeing  I  fast  and  pray. 


LINES   TO   FANNY 

First  published  in  Life,  Letters  and  Literary 
Remains,  and  there  dated  October,  1819 ;  their 
exact  date  seems  to  be  indicated  by  a  passage 
in  a  letter  to  Fanny  Brawne,  written  October 
13, 1819,  intimating  some  work,  and  breaking 
out  into :  '  I  cannot  proceed  with  any  degree  of 
content.  I  must  write  you  a  line  or  two  and 
see  if  that  will  assist  in  dismissing  you  from 
my  mind  for  ever  so  short  a  time.' 


parently  written  in  the  same  period,  they  stand 
as  a  painful  witness  to  the  ebbing  tide  of 
Keats's  life. 

WHAT  can  I  do  to  drive  away 
Remembrance   from   my   eyes?    for  they 

have  seen, 

Aye,  an  hour  ago,  my  brilliant  Queen  ! 
Touch  has  a  memory.     O  say,  love,  say, 
What  can  I  do  to  kill  it  and  be  free 
In  my  old  liberty  ? 

When  every  fair  one  that  I  saw  was  fair, 
Enough  to  catch  me  in  but  half  a  snare, 
Not  keep  me  there: 

When,  howe'er  poor  or  particolour'd  things, 
My  muse  had  wings, 
And  ever  ready  was  to  take  her  course 
Whither  I  bent  her  force, 
Unintellectual,  yet  divine  to  me;  — 
Divine,  I  say !  —  What  sea-bird   o'er  the 

sea 

Is  a  philosopher  the  while  he  goes 
Winging    along  where    the    great   water 

throes  ? 

How  shall  I  do 

To  get  anew 

Those  moulted  feathers,  and  so  mount  once 
more 

Above,  above 

The  reach  of  fluttering  Love, 
And  make  him  cower  lowly  while  I  soar  ? 
Shall  I  gulp  wine  ?     No,  that  is  vulgar- 
ism, 
A  heresy  and  schism, 

Foisted  into  the  canon  law  of  love ;  — 
No,  —  wine  is  only  sweet  to  happy  men; 

More  dismal  cares 

Seize  on  me  unawares,  — 
Where  shall  I  learn  to  get  my  peace  again  ? 
To  banish  thoughts  of  that  most  hateful 
land, 


214 


TO   FANNY 


2I5 


Dungeoner  of  my  friends,  that  wicked 
strand 

Where  they  were  wreck'd  and  live  a 
wrecked  life; 

That  monstrous  region,  whose  dull  rivers 
pour, 

Ever  from  their  sordid  urns  unto  the  shore, 

Unown'd  of  any  weedy-haired  gods; 

Whose  winds,  all  zephyrless,  hold  scour- 
ging rods, 

Iced  in  the  great  lakes,  to  afflict  mankind ; 

Whose  rank-grown  forests,  frosted,  black, 
and  blind, 

Would  fright  a  Dryad;  whose  harsh  herb- 
aged  meads 

Make  lean  and  lank  the  starved  ox  while 
he  feeds; 

There  bad  flowers  have  no  scent,  birds  no 
sweet  song, 

And  great  unerring  Nature  once  seems 
wrong. 

O,  for  some  sunny  spell 

To  dissipate  the  shadows  of  this  hell  ! 

Say  they  are  gone,  —  with  the  new  dawn- 
ing light 

Steps  forth  my  lady  bright ! 

O,  let  me  once  more  rest 

My  soul  upon  that  dazzling  breast  ! 

Let  once  again  these  aching  arms  be  placed, 

The  tender  gaolers  of  thy  waist ! 

And  let  me  feel  that  warm  breath  here  and 
there 


To  spread  a  rapture  in  my  very  hair,  — 

O,  the  sweetness  of  the  pain  ! 

Give  me  those  lips  again  ! 

Enough  !     Enough  !  it  is  enough  for  me 

To  dream  of  thee  ! 


TO    FANNY 

With  the  date  1819  in  Life,  Letters  and  Lit- 
erary Remains. 

I  CRY  your  mercy  —  pity  —  love  —  aye, 

love  ! 

Merciful  love  that  tantalizes  not, 
One-thoughted,  never-wandering,  guileless 

love, 
Unmask'd,  and  being  seen  —  without  a 

blot! 
O  !  let  me  have  thee  whole,  —  all  —  all  — 

be  mine  ! 

That  shape,  that  fairness,  that  sweet  mi- 
nor zest 
Of  love,  your  kiss,  —  those  hands,  those 

eyes  divine, 

That  warm,  white,  lucent,  million-plea- 
sured breast,  — 
Yourself  —  your  soul  —  in  pity   give    me 

all, 

Withhold  no  atom's  atom,  or  I  die, 
Or  living  on  perhaps,  your  wretched  thrall, 

Forget,  in  the  mist  of  idle  misery, 
Life's  purposes  —  the  palate  of  my  mind 
Losing  its  gust,  and  my  ambition  blind  ! 


THE   CAP  AND   BELLS 


OR,   THE   JEALOUSIES 

A  Faery  Tale.     Unfinished 


In  a  letter  to  John  Taylor,  his  publisher, 
written  from  Hampstead,  November  17,  1819, 
Keats,  who  was  then  in  his  most  restless  mood, 
writes  impulsively :  '  I  have  come  to  a  deter- 
mination not  to  publish  anything  I  have  now 
ready  written ;  but,  for  all  that,  to  publish  a 
poem  before  long,  and  that  I  hope  to  make  a 
fine  one.  As  the  marvellous  is  the  most  en- 
ticing, and  the  surest  guarantee  of  harmonious 
numbers,  I  have  been  endeavouring  to  per- 
suade myself  to  untether  Fancy,  and  to  let  her 
manage  for  herself.  I  and  myself  cannot  agree 
about  this  at  all.  Wonders  are  no  wonders  to 
me.  I  am  more  at  home  amongst  men  and 
women.  I  would  rather  read  Chaucer  than 
Ariosto.  The  little  dramatic  skill  I  may  as  yet 
have,  however  badly  it  might  show  in  a  drama, 
would,  I  think,  be  sufficient  for  a  poem.  I 
wish  to  diffuse  the  colouring  of  "St.  Agnes' 
Eve  "  throughout  a  poem  in  which  character 
and  sentiment  would  be  the  figures  to  such 
drapery.  Two  or  three  such  poems,  if  God 
should  spare  me,  written  in  the  course  of  the 


next  six  years,  would  be  a  famous  Gradus  ad 
Parnassum  altissimum  —  I  mean  they  would 
nerve  me  up  to  the  writing  of  a  few  fine  plays 
—  my  greatest  ambition,  when  I  do  feel  am- 
bitious. I  am  sorry  to  say  that  is  very  seldom.' 
Lord  Houghton  quotes  from  Keats's  friend, 
Charles  Armitage  Brown :  '  This  Poem  was 
written  subject  to  future  amendments  and 
omissions ;  it  was  begun  without  a  plot,  and 
without  any  presented  laws  for  the  supernatu- 
ral machinery.'  Keats  apparently  designed 
publishing  the  poem  with  the  signature  '  Lucy 
Vaughan  Lloyd,'  and  it  can  only  be  taken  as 
one  of  his  feverish  attempts  at  using  his  intel- 
lectual powers  for  self -maintenance,  when  he 
was  discouraged  at  the  prospect  of  commercial 
success  with  his  genuine  poetry.  Hunt  pub- 
lished some  of  the  stanzas  in  The  Indicator 
August  23,  1820,  as  written  by  '  a  very  good 
poetess  Lucy  V L '  and  Lord  Hough- 
ton  included  the  whole  in  Life,  Letters  and 
Literary  Remains. 


IN  midmost  Ind,  beside  Hydaspes  cool, 
There  stood,  or  hover'd,  tremulous  in  the 

air, 

A  faery  city,  'neath  the  potent  rule 
Of  Emperor  Elfinan;  famed  ev'ry where 
For  love  of  mortal  women,  maidens  fair, 
Whose  lips  were  solid,  whose  soft  hands 

were  made 

Of  a  fit  mould  and  beauty,  ripe  and  rare, 
To  pamper  his  slight  wooing,  warm  yet 

staid: 
He  loved  girls  smooth  as  shades,  but  hated 

a  mere  shade. 


216 


II 

This  was  a  crime  forbidden  by  the  law; 
And  all  the  priesthood  of  his  city  wept, 
For  ruin  and  dismay  they  well  foresaw, 
If  impious  prince  no  bound  or  limit  kept, 
And  faery  Zendervester  overstept; 
They  wept,  he  sinn'd,  and  still  he  would 

sin  on, 
They  dreamt  of  sin,  and  he  sinn'd  while 

they  slept; 
In  vain    the   pulpit    thunder'd    at    the 

throne, 

Caricature  was  vain,  and  vain  the  tart  lam- 
poon. 


THE   CAP   AND   BELLS 


217 


in 

Which  seeing,  his  high  court  of  parlia- 
ment 

Laid   a   remonstrance  at   his  Highness' 
feet, 

Praying  his  royal  senses  to  content 

Themselves  with  what  in  faery  land  was 
sweet, 

Befitting    best    that    shade   with   shade 
should  meet: 

Whereat,  to  calm  their  fears,  he  pro- 
mised soon 

From  mortal   tempters  all  to  make  re- 
treat — 

Ay,  even  on  the  first  of  the  new  moon, 
An  immaterial  wife  to  espouse  as  heaven's 
boon. 

IV 

Meantime  he  sent  a  fluttering  embassy 
To  Pigmio,  of  Imaus  sovereign, 
To  half  beg,  and  half  demand,  respect- 
fully, 
The  hand  of  his   fair  daughter  Bella- 

naine ; 
An  audience  had,  and  speeching  done, 

they  gain 
Their  point,  and  bring  the  weeping  bride 

away; 
Whom,  with  but  one  attendant,  safely 

lain 
Upon  their  wings,  they  bore  in  bright 

array, 
While  little  harps  were  touch'd  by  many  a 

lyric  fay. 


As  in  old  pictures  tender  cherubim 

A  child's  soul  thro'  the  sapphired  canvas 

bear, 

So,  thro'  a  real  heaven,  on  they  swim 
With  the  sweet  princess  on  her  plumaged 

lair, 
Speed  giving  to  the  winds  her  lustrous 

hair; 

And  so  she  journey'd,  sleeping  or  awake, 
Save  when,  for  healthful  exercise  and 

air, 


She  chose  to  *  promener  a  1'aile,'  or  take 
A  pigeon's  somerset,  for  sport  or  change's 


VI 

'  Dear  Princess,  do  not  whisper  me  so 

loud,' 

Quoth  Corallina,  nurse  and  confidant, 
'  Do  not  you  see  there,  lurking  in  a  cloud, 
Close  at  your  back,  that  sly  old  Crafti- 

cant? 

He  hears  a  whisper  plainer  than  a  rant: 
Dry  up  your  tears,  and  do  not  look  so 

blue; 

He  's  Elfinan's  great  state-spy  militant, 
He 's   running,    lying,    flying    footman, 

too  — 
Dear  mistress,  let  him  have    no  handle 

against  you ! 

VII 

'  Show  him  a  mouse's  tail,  and  he  will 

guess, 

With  metaphysic  swiftness,  at  the  mouse; 
Show  him  a  garden,  and  with  speed  no 


He'll    surmise    sagely   of    a    dwelling- 
house, 

And  plot,  in  the  same  minute,  how  to 
chouse 

The  owner  out  of  it;  show  him  a  — ' 
«  Peace ! 

Peace  !  nor  contrive  thy  mistress'  ire  to 
rouse  ! ' 

Return'd  the  princess,  '  my  tongue  shall 

not  cease 

Till  from  this  hated  match  I  get  a  free 
release. 

VIII 

1  Ah,  beauteous  mortal ! '   *  Hush  ! '  quoth 

Coralline, 

'  Really  you  must  not  talk  of  him  indeed.' 
'  You  hush  ! '  replied  the  mistress,  with 

a  shine 

Of  anger  in  her  eyes,  enough  to  breed 
In  stouter  hearts  than  nurse's  fear  and 

dread: 


2l8 


THE   CAP   AND    BELLS 


'T  was  not  the  glance  itself  made  nursey 

flinch, 
But  of  its  threat  she  took  the  utmost 

heed; 
Not  liking  in  her  heart  an  hour-long 

pinch, 
Or  a  sharp  needle  run  into  her  back  an 

inch. 

IX 

So  she  was  silenced,  and  fair  Bellanaine, 
Writhing  her  little  body  with  ennui, 
Continued  to  lament  and  to  complain, 
That  Fate,    cross-purposing,   should  let 

her  be 
Ravish'd  away  far  from  her  dear  coun- 

tree; 
That  all  her  feelings  should  be  set  at 

nought, 

In  trumping  up  this  match  so  hastily, 
With  lowland  blood;  and  lowland  blood 

she  thought 
Poison,  as  every  stanch  true-born  Imaian 

ought. 


Sorely  she  grieved,  and  wetted  three  or 

four 
White   Provence   rose-leaves    with    her 

faery  tears, 
But  not  for  this  cause;  —  alas  !  she  had 

more 

Bad  reasons  for  her  sorrow,  as  appears 
In   the   famed   memoirs  of  a   thousand 

years, 

Written  by  Crafticant,  and  published 
By  Parpaglion  and  Co.,  (those  sly  com- 
peers 
Who  raked  up  ev'ry   fact   against  the 

dead,) 
In  Scarab  Street,  Panthea,  at  the  Jubal's 

Head. 

XI 

Where,  after  a  long  hypercritic  howl 
Against    the    vicious    manners    of    the 
age, 


He  goes  on  to  expose,   with  heart  and 
soul, 

What  vice  in  this  or  that  year  was  the 
rage, 

Backbiting  all  the  world  in  every  page; 

With  special   strictures   on    the   horrid 
crime, 

(Section'd  and  subsection'd  with   learn- 
ing sage,) 

Of  faeries  stooping  on  their  wings  sub- 
lime 

To  kiss  a  mortal's  lips,  when  such  were  in 
their  prime. 

XII 

Turn  to  the  copious  index,  you  will  find 
Somewhere  in  the  column,  headed  let- 
ter B, 
The  name  of  Bellanaine,  if  you  're  not 

blind; 
Then  pray   refer  to  the  text,   and  you 

will  see 

An  article  made  up  of  calumny 
Against   this   highland   princess,   rating 

her 

For  giving  way,  so  over  fashionably, 
To  this  new-fangled  vice,  which  seems  a 

burr 

Stuck  in  his  moral  throat,  no  coughing  e'er 
could  stir. 

XIII 

There  he  says  plainly  that  she  loved  a 

man  ! 
That   she   around  him  flutter'd,  flirted, 

toy'd, 
Before  her   marriage   with    great   Elfi- 

nan; 

That  after  marriage  too,  she  never  joy'd 
In  husband's  company,  but  still  employ'd 
Her  wits  to  'scape  away  to  Angle-land; 
Where  lived  the  youth,  who  worried  and 

annoy'd 
Her  tender  heart,  and  its  warm  ardours 

fann'd 
To  such  a  dreadful  blaze,  her  side  would 

scorch  her  hand. 


THE   CAP   AND    BELLS 


219 


XIV 

But  let  us  leave  this  idle  tittle-tattle 
To  waiting  -  maids,   and   bed -room  co- 
teries, 
Nor  till  fit  time  against  her  fame  wage 

battle. 

Poor  Elfinan  is  very  ill  at  ease, 
Let  us  resume  his  subject  if  you  please : 
For   it   may   comfort   and   console   him 

much, 

To  rhyme  and  syllable  his  miseries ; 
Poor    Elfinan !    whose    cruel    fate    was 

such, 

He   sat  and   cursed  a  bride    he   knew  he 
could  not  touch. 


XV 

Soon  as  (according  to  his  promises) 
The  bridal  embassy  had  taken  wing, 
And  vanish'd,  bird-like,  o'er  the  suburb 

trees, 
The  emperor,  empierced  with  the  sharp 

sting 

Of  love,  retired,  vex'd  and  murmuring 
Like  any  drone  shut  from  the  fair  bee- 
queen, 

Into  his  cabinet,  and  there  did  fling 
His  limbs  upon  the  sofa,  full  of  spleen, 
And   damn'd  his  House    of   Commons,  in 
complete  chagrin. 


XVI 

'  I  '11  trounce  some  of  the  members,'  cried 

the  Prince, 
*  I  '11   put   a   mark   against   some   rebel 

names, 

I  '11  make  the  Opposition-benches  wince, 
I'll  show  them  very  soon,  to  all  their 

shames, 
What   'tis    to    smother   up   a    Prince's 

flames; 

That  ministers  should  join  in  it,  I  own, 
Surprises  me  !  —  they  too  at  these  high 

games  ! 

Am  I  an  Emperor  ?  Do  I  wear  a  crown  ? 
Imperial  Elfinan,  go  hang  thyself  or  drown  ! 


XVII 

'  I  '11  trounce  'em  !  —  there  's  the  square- 
cut  chancellor, 

His  son  shall  never  touch  that  bishopric; 

And  for  the  nephew  of  old  Palfior, 

I  '11  show  him  that  his  speeches  made  me 
sick, 

And  give  the  colonelcy  to  Phalaric; 

The  tiptoe  marquis,  moral  and  gallant, 

Shall  lodge  in  shabby  taverns  upon  tick; 

And   for  the  Speaker's  second   cousin's 

aunt, 

She  sha'n't  be  maid  of  honour,  —  by  heaven 
that  she  sha'n't ! 

XVIII 

'I'll  shirk  the  Duke  of  A.;  I  '11  cut  his 

brother ; 

I  '11  give  no  garter  to  his  eldest  son; 
I  won't  speak  to  his  sister  or  his  mother  ! 
The  Viscount  B.  shall  live  at  cut-and- 

run; 
But  how  in  the  world  can  I  contrive  to 

stun 
That  fellow's  voice,  which  plagues  me 

worse  than  any, 

That  stubborn  fool,  that  impudent  state- 
dun, 
Who  sets   down  ev'ry   sovereign  as   a 

zany,  — 
That   vulgar   commoner,   Esquire  Bianco- 

pany? 

XIX 

'  Monstrous  affair  !     Pshaw  !  pah  !  what 

ugly  minx 
Will   they   fetch   from    Imaus   for   my 

bride  ? 
Alas  !    my    wearied    heart    within    me 

sinks, 

To  think  that  I  must  be  so  near  allied 
To  a  cold  dullard  fay,  —  ah,  woe  betide  ! 
Ah,  fairest  of  all  human  loveliness  ! 
Sweet  Bertha  !  what  crime  can  it  be  to 

glide 

About  the  fragrant  plaitings  of  thy  dress, 
Or  kiss  thine  eye,  or  count  thy  locks,  tress 

after  tress  ? ' 


220 


THE   CAP   AND   BELLS 


xx 

So  saM,  one  minute's  while  his  eyes  re- 

main'd 

Half  lidded,  piteous,  languid,  innocent; 
But,  in  a  wink,  their  splendour  they  re- 

gain'd, 
Sparkling  revenge    with   amorous   fury 

blent. 
Love  thwarted  in  bad  temper  oft  has 

vent: 
He  rose,  he  stampt  his  foot,  he  rang  the 

bell, 
And  order'd  some  death-warrants  to  be 

sent 

For  signature: — somewhere    the  tem- 
pest fell, 
As  many  a  poor  fellow  does   not  live  to 

tell. 

XXI 

'  At  the  same  time,  Ebaii,'  —  (this  was 

his  page, 

A  fay  of  colour,  slave  from  top  to  toe, 
Sent  as  a  present,  while  yet  under  age, 
From  the  Viceroy  of  Zanguebar,  —  wise, 

slow, 
His  speech,  his  only  words  were  'yes* 

and  'no,* 
But  swift  of  look,  and  foot,  and  wing 

was  he,)  — 
'At  the  same  time,  Eban,  this  instant 

go 
To  Hum  the  soothsayer,  whose  name  I 

see 
Among  the  fresh  arrivals  in  our  empery. 

XXII 

'Bring  Hum  to  me!  But  stay  — here 
take  my  ring, 

The  pledge  of  favour,  that  he  not  sus- 
pect 

Any  foul  play,  or  awkward  murdering, 

Tho'  I  have  bowstrung  many  of  his  sect; 

Throw  in  a  hint,  that  if  he  should  neg- 
lect 

One  hour,  the  next  shall  see  him  in  my 
grasp, 

And  the  next  after  that  shall  see  him 
neck'd, 


Or   swallow'd    by    my   hunger  -  starved 

asp, — 

And  mention  ('t  is  as  well)  the  torture  of 
the  wasp.' 

XXIII 

These  orders  given,  the  Prince,  in  half  a 
pet, 

Let   o'er  the   silk   his   propping    elbow 
slide, 

Caught  up  his  little  legs,  and,  in  a  fret, 

Fell  on  the  sofa  on  his  royal  side. 

The  slave  retreated  backwards,  humble- 
eyed, 

And  with  a  slave-like  silence  closed  the 
door, 

And  to  old  Hum  thro*  street  and  alley 
hied; 

He  '  knew  the  city,'  as  we  say,  of  yore, 
And  for  short  cuts  and  turns,  was  nobody 
knew  more. 

XXIV 

It  was  the  time  when  wholesale  dealers 

close 
Their   shutters  with   a  moody  sense  of 

wealth, 

But  retail  dealers,  diligent,  let  loose 
The  gas  (objected  to  on  score  of  health), 
Convey'd    in    little    solder'd    pipes    by 

stealth, 
And  make  it  flare  in  many  a  brilliant 

form, 
That  all  the  powers  of  darkness  it  re- 

pell'th, 
Which  to  the  oil-trade  doth  great  scaith 

and  harm, 

And  supersedeth  quite  the  use  of  the  glow- 
worm. 

xxv 

Eban,  untempted  by  the  pastry-cooks, 
(Of  pastry  he  got  store  within  the  pal- 
ace,) 
With  hasty  steps,   wrapp'd  cloak,  and 

solemn  looks, 

Incognito  upon  his  errand  sallies, 
His  smelling-bottle  ready  for  the  allies; 


THE   CAP   AND   BELLS 


221 


He  pass'd  the  hurdy-gurdies  with  dis- 
dain, 

Vowing  he  'd  have  them  sent  on  board 
the  galleys; 

Just  as  he  made  his  vow,  it  'gan  to  rain, 
Therefore  he  calPd  a  coach,  and  bade  it 
drive  amain. 

XXVI 

« I  '11  pull  the  string,'  said  he,  and  further 

said, 

'  Polluted  Jarvey  !  Ah,  thou  filthy  hack  ! 
Whose  springs  of  life  are  all  dried  up 

and  dead, 
Whose   linsey-woolsey   lining   hangs  all 

slack, 
Whose  rug  is  straw,  whose  wholeness  is 

a  crack  ; 
And  evermore  thy  steps  go  clatter-clit- 

ter; 
Whose  glass  once  up  can  never  be  got 

back, 
Who  prov'st,  with  jolting  arguments  and 

bitter, 
That   'tis  of  modern   use   to  travel  in  a 

litter. 

XXVII 

*  Thou  inconvenience  !  thou  hungry  crop 
For  all  corn  !   thou  snail-creeper  to  and 

fro, 
Who  while  thou  goest  ever  seem'st  to 

stop, 

And  fiddle-faddle  standest  while  you  go; 
I'  the  morning,  freighted  with  a  weight 

of  woe, 

Unto  some  lazar-house  thou  journeyest, 
And  in  the  evening  tak'st  a  double  row 
Of  dowdies,  for  some  dance  or  party 

drest, 
Besides  the  goods  meanwhile  thou  movest 

east  and  west. 

XXVIII 

'  By  thy  ungallant  bearing  and  sad  mien, 
An  inch  appears  the  utmost  thou  couldst 

budge: 
Yet  at  the  slightest  nod,  or  hint,  or  sign, 


Round   to   the   curb-stone    patient  dost 

thou  trudge, 

SchooFd  in  a  beckon,  learned  in  a  nudge, 
A  dull-eyed  Argus  watching  for  a  fare; 
Quiet  and  plodding  thou   dost  bear  no 

grudge 

To  whisking  tilburies,  or  phaetons  rare, 
Curricles,   or  mail-coaches,   swift  beyond 

compare.' 

XXIX 

Philosophizing  thus,  he  pull'd  the  check, 

And  bade  the  coachman  wheel  to  such  a 
street, 

Who  turning  much  his  body,  more  his 
neck, 

Louted  full  low,  and  hoarsely  did  him 
greet: 

'  Certes,  Monsieur  were  best  take  to  his 
feet, 

Seeing  his  servant  can  no  farther  drive 

For  press  of  coaches,  that  to-night  here 
meet, 

Many  as  bees  about  a  straw-capp'd  hive, 
When  first  for  April  honey  into  faint  flow- 
ers they  dive.' 

XXX 

Eban  then  paid  his  fare,  and  tiptoe  went 
To  Hum's  hotel;  and,  as  he  on  did  pass 
With  head  inclined,  each  dusky  linea- 
ment 
Show'd  in  the  pearl-paved  street  as  in  a 

glass; 

His  purple  vest,  that  ever  peeping  was 
Rich  from  the  fluttering  crimson  of  his 

cloak, 

His  silvery  trowsers,  and  his  silken  sash 
Tied  in  a  burnish'd  knot,  their  semblance 

took 

Upon    the    mirror'd    walls,   wherever    he 
might  look. 

XXXI 

He  smiled  at  self,  and,  smiling,  show'd 

his  teeth, 
And  seeing  his  white  teeth,  he  smiled  the 

more; 


222 


THE   CAP   AND   BELLS 


Lifted  his  eyebrows,  spurn'd  the  patb  be- 
neath, 

Show'd  teeth  again,  and  smiled  as  hereto- 
fore, 

Until  he  knock'd  at  the  magician's  door; 

Where,  till  the  porter  answer'd,  might 
be  seen, 

In  the  clear  panel  more  he  could  adore,  — 

His  turban  wreathed  of  gold,  and  white, 

and  green, 

Mustachios,  ear-ring,  nose-ring,  and  his  sa- 
bre keen. 

XXXII 

'  Does  not  your  master  give  a  rout  to- 
night ? ' 
Quoth  the  dark  page;  *  Oh,  no  ! '  return'd 

the  Swiss, 

'  Next  door  but  one  to  us,  upon  the  right, 
The  Magazin  des  Modes  now  open  is 
Against  the  Emperor's  wedding;  —  and, 

sir,  this 

My  master  finds  a  monstrous  horrid  bore ; 
As  he  retired,  an  hour  ago  iwis, 
With  his  best  beard  and  brimstone,  to 

explore 
And  cast  a  quiet  figure  in  his  second  floor. 

XXXIII 

'  Gad  !  he  's  obliged  to  stick  to  business  ! 

For  chalk,  I   hear,  stands  at   a  pretty 
price; 

And  as  for  aqua  vitse  —  there  's  a  mess  ! 

The  denies  sapiential  of  mice 

Our  barber  tells  me  too  are  on  the  rise,  — 

Tinder  's  a  lighter  article,  — nitre  pure 

Goes  off  like  lightning,  —  grains  of  Para- 
dise 

At    an    enormous    figure  !  —  stars    not 

sure  !  — 

Zodiac  will  not  move  without  a  slight  dou- 
ceur ! 

XXXIV 

*  Venus  won't  stir  a  peg  without  a  fee, 
And  master  is  too  partial  entre  nous 
To  —  '      'Hush  — hush!'    cried    Eban, 
'  sure  that  is  he 


Coming  down  stairs,  —  by  St.  Bartholo- 
mew ! 

As  backwards  as  he  can,  —  is  't  some- 
thing new  ? 

Or  is  't  his  custom,  in  the  name  of  fun  ? ' 

'He  always  comes  down  backward,  with 
one  shoe '  — 

Return'd  the  porter  — « off,  and  one  shoe 

on, 

Like,  saving  shoe  for  sock  or  stocking,  my 
man  John ! ' 

xxxv 

It  was  indeed  the  great  Magician, 
Feeling,  with  careful  toe,  for  every  stair, 
And  retrograding  careful  as  he  can, 
Backwards  and  downwards  from  his  own 

two  pair: 
4  Salpietro  ! '  exclaimed  Hum,  '  is  the  dog 

there  ? 

He  's  always  in  my  way  upon  the  mat ! ' 
'  He  's  in  the  kitchen,  or  the  Lord  knows 

where,'  — 
Replied  the  Swiss,  —  '  the  nasty,  yelping 

brat ! ' 
'  Don't  beat  him  ! '  return'd  Hum,  and  on 

the  floor  came  pat. 

xxxvi 
Then  facing    right   about,  he   saw  the 

Page, 
And  said:  *  Don't  tell  me  what  you  want, 

Eban; 

The  Emperor  is  now  in  a  huge  rage,  — 
'T  is  nine  to  one  he  '11  give  you  the  rattan! 
Let  us  away  ! '     Away  together  ran 
The    plain-dress'd    sage    and    spangled 

blackamoor, 

Nor  rested  till  they  stood  to  cool,  and  fan, 
And  breathe  themselves  at  th'  Emperor's 

chamber  door, 

When  Eban  thought  he  heard  a  soft  impe- 
rial snore. 

XXXVII 

'  I  thought  you  guess'd,  foretold,  or  pro- 
phesied, 
That 's  Majesty  was  in  a  raving  fit  ? ' 


THE   CAP   AND    BELLS 


223 


'  He  dreams,'  said  Hum,  *  or  I  have  ever 
lied, 

That  he  is  tearing  you,  sir,  bit  by  bit.' 

'  He  's  not  asleep,  and  you  have  little 
wit,' 

Replied  the  Page,  'that  little  buzzing 
noise, 

Whate'er  your  palmistry  may  make  of 
it, 

Comes  from  a  plaything  of  the  Em- 
peror's choice, 

From  a  Man-Tiger-Organ,  prettiest  of  his 
toys.' 

XXXVIII 

Eban  then  usher'd  in  the  learned  Seer: 
Elfinan's  back  was  turn'd,  but,  ne'erthe- 

less, 
Both,  prostrate   on  the   carpet,  ear   by 

ear, 

Crept  silently,  and  waited  in  distress, 
Knowing  the  Emperor's  moody  bitter- 
ness; 

Eban  especially,  who  on  the  floor  'gan 
Tremble  and  quake  to  death,  —  he  feared 

less 

A  dose  of  senna-tea,  or  nightmare  Gor- 
gon, 

Than  the  Emperor  when  he  play'd  on  his 
Man-Tiger-Organ. 

XXXIX 

They  kiss'd  nine  times  the  carpet's  vel- 
vet face 

Of  glossy  silk,  soft,  smooth,  and  meadow- 
green, 

Where  the  close  eye  in  deep  rich  fur 
might  trace 

A  silver  tissue,  scantly  to  be  seen, 

As  daisies  lurk'd  in  June-grass,  buds  in 
green ; 

Sudden  the  music  ceased,  sudden  the 
hand 

Of  majesty,  by  dint  of  passion  keen, 

Doubled  into  a  common  fist,  went  grand, 
And  knock'd  down  three  cut  glasses,  and 
his  best  ink-stand. 


XL 

Then  turning  round,  he  saw  those  trem- 
bling two: 
'  Eban,'   said  he,  «  as  slaves  should  taste 

the  fruits 

Of  diligence,  I  shall  remember  you 
To-morrow,  or  next  day,  as  time  suits, 
In  a  finger  conversation  with  my  mutes,  — 
Begone  !  —  for  you,  Chaldean  !  here  re- 
main ! 
Fear  not,  quake  not,  and  as  good  wine 

recruits 
A  conjurer's  spirits,  what  cup  will  you 

drain  ? 

Sherry  in  silver,  hock  in  gold,  or  glass'd 
champagne  ?  ' 

XLI 

'  Commander  of  the  Faithful ! '  answer'd 

Hum, 

In  preference  to  these,  I  '11  merely  taste 
A  thimble-full  of  old  Jamaica  rum.' 

*  A  simple    boon  ! '    said  Elfinan,   *  thou 

may'st 

Have  Nantz,  with  which  my  morning- 
coffee  's  laced.' l 

*  I  '11  have  a  glass  of  Nantz,  then/  —  said 

the  Seer,  — 

'  Made  racy  —  (sure  my  boldness  is  mis- 
placed !)  — 

With  the  third  part  —  (yet  that  is  drink- 
ing dear ! ) — 

Of  the  least  drop  of  creme  de  citron  crystal 
clear.' 

XLII 

'  I  pledge  you,  Hum  !   and  pledge  my 

dearest  love, 
My  Bertha!'     'Bertha!  Bertha  !' cried 

the  sage, 
' 1   know   a   many   Berthas  ! '     '  Mine  's 

above 
All  Berthas  ! '  sighed  the  Emperor.     '  I 

engage,' 
Said  Hum,  '  in  duty,  and  in  vassalage, 

*  « Mr.  Nisby  is  of  opinion  that  laced  coffee  is  bad  for 
the  heatf..'  —Spectator. 


224 


THE   CAP   AND    BELLS 


To    mention    all    the    Berthas    in    the 

earth ; — 
There  's    Bertha    Watson,  —  and    Miss 

Bertha  Page,  — 
This  famed  for  languid  eyes,  and  that  for 

mirth,  — 
There  's    Bertha  Blount  of  York,  —  and 

Bertha  Knox  of  Perth.' 

XLIII 

'You   seem  to  know'  —  'I   do  know,' 

answer'd  Hum, 
'  Your  Majesty  's  in  love  with  some  fine 

*girl 
Named  Bertha;  but  her  surname  will  not 

come, 

Without  a  little  conjuring/    ' 'T  is  Pearl, 
'T  is  Bertha  Pearl !      What  makes  my 

brains  so  whirl  ? 

And  she  is  softer,  fairer  than  her  name  ! ' 
'  Where    does   she   live  ? '  ask'd   Hum. 

'  Her  fair  locks  curl 
So  brightly,  they   put   all   our   fays   to 

shame  !  — 
Live  ?  —  O  !  at  Canterbury,  with  her  old 

grand  dame.' 

XLIV 

*  Good  !  good  ! '  cried  Hum,  « I  've  known 

her  from  a  child  ! 

She  is  a  changeling  of  my  management; 
She  was  born  at  midnight  in  an  Indian 

wild; 
Her  mother's  screams  with  the  striped 

tiger's  blent, 
While  the  torch-bearing  slaves  a  halloo 

sent 

Into  the  jungles ;  and  her  palanquin, 
Rested  amid  the  desert's  dreariment, 
Shook  with  her  agony,  till  fair  were  seen 
The  little  Bertha's  eyes  ope  on  the  stars 

serene.' 

XLV 

'I  can't  say,'   said  the  monarch,   *  that 

may  be 

Just  as  it  happen'd,  true  or  else  a  bam  ! 
Drink  up  your  brandy,  and  sit  down  by 

me, 


Feel,  feel  my  pulse,  how  much  in  love  I 

am; 

And  if  your  science  is  not  all  a  sham, 
Tell   me   some   means  to   get  the  lady 

here.' 
'  Upon   my   honour  ! '   said   the   son    of 

Cham,1 
*  She  is  my  dainty  changeling,  near  and 

dear, 
Although  her  story  sounds  at  first  a  little 

queer.' 

XLVI 

'Convey  her   to   me,  Hum,  or   by   my 

crown, 
My   sceptre,  and  my   cross-surmounted 

globe, 
I  '11  knock  you  —  '     '  Does  your  majesty 

mean  —  down  ? 
No,  no,   you   never   could   my  feelings 

probe 
To  such  a  depth  ! '     The  Emperor  took 

his  robe, 

And  wept  upon  its  purple  palatine, 
While  Hum  continued,  shamming  half 


'  In  Canterbury  doth  your  lady  shine  ? 
But  let  me  cool  your  brandy  with  a  little 
wine.' 

XLVII 

Whereat    a    narrow    Flemish    glass    he 

took, 

That  since  belong'd  to  Admiral  De  Witt, 
Admired  it  with  a  connoisseuring  look, 
And  with  the  ripest  claret  crowned  it, 
And,  ere  the  lively  head  could  burst  and 

flit, 
He    turn'd    it    quickly,   nimbly    upside 

down, 

His  mouth  being  held  conveniently  fit 
To  catch  the  treasure:  'Best  in  all  the 

town!' 
He  said,  smack'd  his  moist  lips,  and  gave  a 

pleasant  frown. 

1  Cham  is  said  to  have  been  the  inventor  of  magic. 
Lucy  learnt  this  from  Bayle's  Dictionary,  and  had 
copied  a  long  Latin  note  from  that  work. 


THE   CAP   AND    BELLS 


225 


XLVIII 

'  Ah  !  good  my  Prince,  weep  not ! '    And 

then  again 
He  fill'd  a  bumper.     « Great  Sire,  do  not 

weep  ! 
Your  pulse   is   shocking,  but   I'll   ease 

your  pain.' 

*  Fetch   me   that  Ottoman,   and  prithee 

keep 
Your  voice  low,'  said  the  Emperor,  « and 

steep 

Some  lady's-fingers  nice  in  Candy  wine; 
And  prithee,  Hum,  behind  the  screen  do 

peep 

For  the  rose-water  vase,  magician  mine  ! 
And  sponge  my  forehead  —  so  my  love  doth 

make  me  pine.' 

XLIX 

*  Ah,  cursed  Bellanaine  ! '     '  Don't  think 

of  her,' 

Rejoin'd  the  Mago,  '  but  on  Bertha  muse; 
For,  by  my  choicest  best  barometer, 
You  shall  not  throttled  be  in  marriage 

noose; 

I  've  said  it,  sire;  you  only  have  to  choose 
Bertha  or   Bellanaine.'      So   saying,  he 

drew 
From  the  left  pocket  of  his  threadbare 

hose, 

A  sampler  hoarded  slyly,  good  as  new; 
Holding  it  by  his  thumb  and  finger  full  in 

view. 


<Sire,  this  is  Bertha  Pearl's  neat  handy- 
work, 

Her  name,  see  here,  Midsummer,  ninety- 
one  ' — 

Elfinan  snatch'd  it  with  a  sudden  jerk, 

And  wept  as  if  he  never  would  have 
done, 

Honouring  with  royal  tears  the  poor 
homespun; 

Whereon  were  broider'd  tigers  with  black 
eyes, 

And  long-tailed  pheasants,  and  a  rising 
sun, 


Plenty  of  posies,  great  stags,  butterflies 
Bigger  than  stags  —  a  moon  —  with  other 
mysteries. 

LI 

The  monarch  handled  o'er  and  o'er  again 
These  day-school   hieroglyphics   with   a 

sigh; 
Somewhat  in  sadness,  but  pleased  in  the 

main, 

Till  this  oracular  couplet  met  his  eye 
Astounded  —  Cupid,  I  do  thee  defy  ! 
It  was  too  much.  He  shrunk  back  in 

his  chair, 
Grew  pale  as  death,  and  fainted  —  very 

nigh  ! 
*  Pho  !  nonsense  ! '  exclaim'd  Hum,  *  now 

don't  despair: 
She  does  not  mean  it  really.     Cheer  up, 

hearty  —  there  ! 

LII 
'  And  listen  to  my  words.     You  say  you 

won't, 

On  any  terms,  marry  Miss  Bellanaine; 
It  goes  against  your  conscience  —  good  ! 

well,  don't. 
You  say,  you  love  a  mortal.     I  would 

fain 

Persuade  your  honour's  highness  to  re- 
frain 

From  peccadilloes.     But,  Sire,  as  I  say, 
What  good  would  that  do  ?     And,  to  be 

more  plain, 
You  would  do  me  a  mischief  some  odd 

day, 
Cut  off  my  ears  and  hands,  or  head  too,  by 

my  fay  ! 

LIII 

'  Besides,  manners  forbid  that  I  should 
pass  any 

Vile  strictures  on  the  conduct  of  a  prince 

Who  should  indulge  his  genius,  if  he  has 
any, 

Not,  like  a  subject,  foolish  matter  mince. 

Now  I  think  on't,  perhaps  I  could  con- 
vince 


226 


THE   CAP   AND   BELLS 


Your  Majesty  there  is  no  crime  at  all 
In  loving  pretty  little  Bertha,  since 
She  's  very  delicate  —  not  over  tall,  — 
A  fairy's  hand,    and  in  the  waist  why  — 
very  small.' 

LIV 
'  Ring  the  repeater,  gentle  Hum  ! '  '  'T  is 

five,' 
Said  gentle  Hum ;  '  the  nights  draw  in 

apace ; 

The  little  birds  I  hear  are  all  alive; 
I  see  the  dawning  touch'd  upon  your  face ; 
Shall  I  put  out  the  candles,  please  your 

Grace  ? ' 
1  Do  put   them   out,  and,  without  more 

ado, 

Tell  me  how  I  may  that  sweet  girl  em- 
brace, — 
How  you  can  bring  her  to  me.'     '  That 's 

for  you, 
Great  Emperor  !  to  adventure,  like  a  lover 

true.' 

LV 

'I  fetch    her!'— 'Yes,  an't  like  your 

Majesty; 
And  as  she  would   be   frighten'd  wide 

awake, 
To  travel   such  a  distance  through  the 

sky, 
Use  of  some  soft  manoeuvre  you  must 

make, 
For    your    convenience,   and    her   dear 

nerves'  sake; 
Nice  way  would   be  to  bring  her  in  a 

swoon, 
Anon,  I  '11  tell  what  course  were  best  to 

take; 
You  must  away  this  morning.'     '  Hum  ! 

so  soon  ?  ' 
*Sire,   you  must  be    in  Kent  by   twelve 

o'clock  at  noon.' 

LVI 

At  this  great  Caesar  started  on  his  feet, 
Lifted   his   wings,  and   stood  attentive- 
wise. 


'Those   wings  to  Canterbury  you   must 

beat, 

If  you  hold  Bertha  as  a  worthy  prize, 
Look  in  the   Almanack  —  Moore   never 

lies  — 
April  the   twenty-fourth  —  this   coming 

day, 
Now  breathing  its  new  bloom  upon  the 


Will  end  in  St.  Mark's  Eve;  —  you  must 

away, 

For  on  that  eve  alone  can  you  the  maid 
convey.' 

LVII 

Then    the    magician    solemnly   'gan   to 
frown, 

So  that  his  frost-white  eye-brows,  beet- 
ling low, 

Shaded  his  deep  green  eyes,  and  wrinkles 
brown 

Plaited  upon  his  furnace-scorched  brow: 

Forth  from  his  hood  that  hung  his  neck 
below 

He  lifted  a  bright  casket  of  pure  gold, 

Touch'd  a  spring-lock,  and  there  in  wool 
or  snow, 

Charm'd  into  ever  freezing,  lay  an  old 
And    legend-leaved    book,   mysterious    to 
behold. 

LVIII 

'  Take  this  same  book  —  it  will  not  bite 

you,  Sire; 
There,   put    it    underneath    your    royal 

arm; 
Though  it 's  a  pretty  weight,  it  will  not 

tire, 
But  rather  on  your  journey  keep   you 

warm : 

This  is  the  magic,  this  the  potent  charm, 
That  shall  drive  Bertha  to   a  fainting 

fit! 
When  the  time  comes,  don't  feel  the  least 

alarm, 
But  lift  her  from  the  ground,  and  swiftly 

flit 
Back  to  your  palace.    . 


THE   CAP   AND   BELLS 


22 


LIX 

«  What  shall  I  do  with  that  same  book  ? ' 

«  Why  merely 

Lay  it  on  Bertha's  table,  close  beside 
Her  work-box,  and  't  will  help  your  pur- 
pose dearly; 

I  say  no  more.'     '  Or  good  or  ill  betide, 
Through  the  wide  air  to  Kent  this  morn 

I  glide  ! ' 

Exclaim'd  the  Emperor,  « When  I  return, 
Ask  what  you  will, — I'll  give  you  my 

new  bride  ! 
And  take  some  more  wine,  Hum ;  —  O, 

Heavens  !  I  burn 

To  be  upon  the  wing  !     Now,  now,  that 
minx  I  spurn  ! ' 

LX 

'Leave  her  to  me,'  rejoin'd  the  magian: 
'  But  how  shall  I  account,  illustrious  fay  ! 
For  thine   imperial   absence  ?      Pho  !   I 

can 

Say  you  are  very  sick,  and  bar  the  way 
To  your  so  loving  courtiers  for  one  day; 
If  either  of  their  two  Archbishops'  graces 
Should  talk  of  extreme  unction,  I  shall 

say 
You   do   not   like   cold   pig  with   Latin 

phrases, 

Which  never  should  be  used  but  in  alarm- 
ing cases.' 

LXI 
'Open   the   window,   Hum;   I'm   ready 

now!' 
1  Zooks  ! '  exclaim'd  Hum,  as  up  the  sash 

he  drew, 

'  Behold,  your  Majesty,  upon  the  brow 
Of  yonder  hill,  what  crowds  of  people  ! ' 

'  Whew  ! 
The  monster's   always   after  something 

new,' 
Keturn'd  his  Highness,  « they  are  piping 

hot 
To  see  my  pigsney  Bellanaine.     Hum  ! 

do 

Tighten  my  belt  a  little,  —  so,  so,  —  not 
Too  tight,  —  the  book  !  —  my  wand  !  —  so, 

nothing  is  forgot.' 


LXII 

'  Wounds  !  how  they  shout ! '  said  Hum, 

4  and  there,  —  see,  see, 
Th'  ambassador 's  return'd  from  Pigmio  ! 
The  morning 's  very  fine,  —  uncommonly! 
See,  past  the  skirts  of  yon  white  cloud 

they  go, 
Tinging   it    with   soft    crimsons !     Now 

below 

The  sable-pointed  heads  of  firs  and  pines 
They  dip,  move  on,  and  with  them  moves 

a  glow 

Along  the  forest  side  !    Now  amber  lines 
Reach  the  hill  top,  and  now  throughout  the 

valley  shines.' 

LXIII 

*  Why,  Hum,  you  're  getting  quite  poeti- 
cal ! 
Those   nows  you   managed  in  a  special 

style.' 

'  If  ever  you  have  leisure,  Sire,  you  shall 
See  scraps  of  mine  will  make  it  worth 

your  while, 
Tit-bits    for   Phoebus  !  —  yes,  you   well 

may  smile. 
Hark!    hark!    the   bells!'      'A    little 

further  yet, 
Good  Hum,  and  let  me  view  this  mighty 

coil.' 

Then  the  great  Emperor  full  graceful  set 
His   elbow   for   a   prop,   and    snuff d    his 

mignonette. 

LXIV 

The  morn  is  full  of  holiday:  loud  bells 
With  rival  clamors  ring  from  every  spire; 
Cunningly-station'd  music  dies  and  swells 
In  echoing  places;  when  the  winds   re- 
spire, 
Light  flags  stream  out  like  gauzy  tongues 

of  fire; 

A  metropolitan  murmur,  lifef ul,  warm, 
Comes  from  the  northern  suburbs;  rich 

attire 
Freckles  with  red  and  gold  the  moving 

swarm ; 

While  here  and  there  clear  trumpets  blow 
a  keen  alarm. 


228 


THE   CAP   AND   BELLS 


LXV 

And  now  the  fairy  escort  was  seen  clear, 
Like  the  old  pageant  of  Aurora's  train, 
Above  a  pearl-built  minster,  hovering 

near; 

First  wily  Craf  ticant,  the  chamberlain, 
Balanced  upon   his   gray-grown  pinions 

twain, 

His  slender  wand  officially  reveal'd; 
Then  black  gnomes  scattering  sixpences 

like  rain; 
Then  pages  three  and  three;  and  next, 

slave-held, 
The  Imaian  'scutcheon  bright,  —  one  mouse 

in  argent  field. 

LXVI 

Gentlemen  pensioners   next;    and   after 

them, 

A  troop  of  winged  Janizaries  flew; 
Then  slaves,  as  presents  bearing  many  a 

gem; 
Then  twelve  physicians  fluttering  two 

and  two; 

And  next  a  chaplain  in  a  cassock  new; 
Then  Lords  in  waiting;  then  (what  head 

not  reels 
For  pleasure  ?)  —  the   fair   Princess   in 

full  view, 
Borne  upon  wings,  —  and  very  pleased 

she  feels 
To  have  such  splendour  dance  attendance 

at  her  heels. 

LXVII 

For  there  was  more  magnificence  behind: 

She  waved  her  handkerchief.    «  Ah,  very 
grand  ! ' 

Cried  Elfinan,  and  closed  the  window- 
blind; 

'And,   Hum,  we  must  not  shilly-shally 
stand,  — 

Adieu  !  adieu  !  I  'm  off  for  Angle-land  ! 

I  say,  old  Hocus,  have  you  such  a  thing 

About  you,  —  feel  your  pockets,  I  com- 
mand, — 

I  want,  this  instant,  an  invisible  ring,  — 
Thank  you,  old  mummy  !  —  now  securely  I 
take  wing.' 


LXVIII 

Then  Elfinan  swift  vaulted  from  the  floor, 
And  lighted  graceful  on  the  window-sill ; 
Under  one  arm  the  magic  book  he  bore, 
The  other  he  could  wave  about  at  will; 
Pale  was  his  face,  he  still  look'd  very  ill: 
He   bow'd    at    Bellanaine,   and    said  — 

'  Poor  Bell  ! 

Farewell !  farewell !  and  if  for  ever  !  still 
For  ever  fare  thee  well ! '  —  and  then  he 

fell 
A    laughing  !  —  snapp'd    his     fingers  !  — 

shame  it  is  to  tell ! 

LXIX 

'  By  'r  Lady  !  he  is  gone  ! '  cries  Hum, 

1  and  I,  — 
(I  own  it),  —  have  made  too  free  with 

his  wine; 
Old  Crafticant  will  smoke  me.     By-the- 

bye! 

This  room  is  full  of  jewels  as  a  mine,  — 
Dear  valuable  creatures,  how  ye  shine  ! 
Some   time    to-day   I   must   contrive    a 

minute, 

If  Mercury  propitiously  incline, 
To  examine  his  scrutoire,  and  see  what 's 

in  it, 
For  of  superfluous  diamonds  I  as  well  may 

thin  it. 

LXX 
*  The  Emperor's  horrid  bad;  yes,  that 's 

my  cue  ! ' 
Some  histories  say  that  this  was  Hum's 

last  speech; 
That,   being  fuddled,   he   went    reeling 

through 
The  corridor,  and  scarce  upright  could 

reach 
The  stair-head;  that  being  glutted  as  a 

leech, 
And  used,  as  we  ourselves  have  just  now 

said, 

To  manage  stairs  reversely,  like  a  peach 
Too  ripe,  he  fell,  being  puzzled  in  his 

head 
With  liquor  and  the  staircase:  verdict  — 

found  stone  dead. 


THE   CAP   AND   BELLS 


229 


LXXI 

This,  as  a  falsehood,  Crafticanto  treats; 
And  as  his  style  is  of  strange  elegance, 
Gentle  and  tender,  full  of  soft  conceits, 
(Much  like  our  BoswelFs,)  we  will  take  a 

glance 
At  his  sweet  prose,  and,  if  we  can,  make 

dance 

His  woven  periods  into  careless  rhyme ; 
O,  little  faery  Pegasus  !  rear  —  prance  — 
Trot  round  the  quarto  —  ordinary  time  ! 
March,  little  Pegasus,  with   pawing  hoof 

sublime  ! 

LXXII 

'  Well,  let  us  see,  —  tenth  look  and  chapter 

nine?  — 
Thus  Crafticant  pursues  his  diary:  — 

*  'T  was  twelve  o'clock  at  night,  the  wea- 

ther fine, 

Latitude  thirty-six;  our  scouts  descry 
A  flight  of  starlings  making  rapidly 
Towards  Thibet.     Mem.:— birds  fly  in 

the  night; 
From  twelve  to  half -past  —  wings  not  fit 

to  fly 
For   a  thick   fog  —  the   Princess   sulky 

quite: 
Call'd  for  an  extra  shawl,  and  gave  her 

nurse  a  bite. 

LXXIII 

*  Five    minutes    before    one  —  brought 

down  a  moth 
With    my    new    double-barrel  —  stew'd 

the  thighs, 

And  made  a  very  tolerable  broth  — 
Princess  turn'd  dainty,  to  our  great  sur- 
prise, 
Alter'd  her  mind,  and   thought  it  very 

nice: 
Seeing  her   pleasant,   tried   her  with  a 

pun, 
She  frown'd;  a  monstrous  owl  across  us 

flies 
About  this  time,  —  a  sad  old  figure  of 

fun; 
Bad  omen  —  this  new  match   can't   be   a 

happy  one. 


LXXIV 
*  From  two  to  half-past,  dusky  way  we 

made, 
Above     the    plains    of    Gobi,  —  desert, 

bleak; 

Beheld  afar  off,  in  the  hooded  shade 
Of  darkness,  a  great  mountain  (strange 

to  speak), 
Spitting,  from   forth   its  sulphur-baken 

peak, 
A  fan-shaped  burst  of  blood-red,  arrowy 

fire, 
Turban'd  with  smoke,  which  still  away 

did  reek, 

Solid  and  black  from  that  eternal  pyre, 
Upon  the  laden  winds  that  scantly  could 

respire. 

LXXV 

'  Just  upon  three  o'clock,  a  falling  star 
Created  an  alarm  among  our  troop, 
Kill'd  a  man-cook,  a  page,  and  broke  a 

jar, 

A  tureen,  and  three  dishes,  at  one  swoop, 
Then  passing  by  the  Princess,  singed  her 

hoop: 

Could  not  conceive  what  Coralline  was  at, 
She  clapp'd  her  hands  three  times,  and 

cried  out  "  Whoop  ! " 
Some  strange  Imaian  custom.     A  large 

bat 
Came  sudden  'fore  my  face,  and  brush'd 

against  my  hat. 

LXXVI 

'Five    minutes    thirteen    seconds    after 

three, 

Far  in  the  west  a  mighty  fire  broke  out, 
Conjectured,  on  the  instant,  it  might  be 
The  city  of  Balk  —  't  was  Balk  beyond 

all  doubt: 

A  griffin,  wheeling  here  and  there  about 
Kept  reconnoitering   us  —  doubled    our 

guard  — 

Lighted  our  torches,  and  kept  up  a  shout, 
Till  he  sheer'd  off  —  the    Princess  very 

scared  — 
And  many  on  their  marrow-bones  for  death 

prepared. 


230 


THE   CAP   AND   BELLS 


LXXVII 

'At  half-past  three  arose  the    cheerful 

moon  — 

Bivouack'd  for  four  minutes  on  a  cloud  — 
Where  from  the  earth  we  heard  a  lively 

tune 
Of  tambourines   and   pipes,  severe   and 

loud, 
While   on   a    flowery  lawn    a    brilliant 

crowd 
Cinque-parted  danced,  some  half  asleep 

reposed 
Beneath   the   green-faned  cedars,  some 

did  shroud 
In  silken  tents,  and  'mid  light  fragrance 

dozed, 
Or  on  the  open  turf  their  soothed  eyelids 

closed. 

LXXVIII 

*  Dropp'd  my  gold  watch,  and  kill'd  a 

kettle-drum  — 

It  went  for  apoplexy  —  foolish  folks  !  — 
Left  it  to  pay  the  piper — a  good  sum  — 
(I  've  got  a  conscience,  maugre  people's 

jokes,) 

To  scrape  a  little  favour;  'gan  to  coax 
Her   Highness'   pug-dog  —  got   a  sharp 

rebuff  — 
She   wish'd   a   game    at    whist  —  made 

three  revokes  — 
Turn'd  from   myself,  her  partner,  in  a 

huff; 
His  Majesty  will  know  her  temper   time 

enough. 

LXXIX 

'  She  cried  for  chess  —  I  play'd  a  game 

with  her  — 
Castled    her    king   with    such    a  vixen 

look, 

It  bodes  ill  to  his  Majesty  —  (refer 
To   the   second   chapter  of  my  fortieth 

book, 

And  see  what  hoity-toity  airs  she  took). 
At  half-past  four  the  morn  essay'd  to 

beam  — 
Saluted,  as  we  pass'd,  an  early  rook,  — 


The    Princess   fell   asleep,   and,   in    her 

dream, 

Talk'd  of  one  Master  Hubert,  deep  in  her 
esteem. 

LXXX 

'  About   this   time  —  making  delightful 

way  — 
Shed  a  quill-feather  from  my  larboard 

wing  — 
Wish'd,  trusted,  hoped  't  was  no  sign  of 

decay  — 
Thank  Heaven,  I  'm  hearty  yet !  —  't  was 

no  such  thing:  — 

At  five  the  golden  light  began  to  spring, 
With  fiery  shudder  through  the  bloomed 

east; 
At   six    we    heard    Panthea's    churches 

ring  — 

The  city  all  his  unhived  swarms  had  cast, 
To  watch  our  grand  approach,  and  hail  us 

as  we  pass'd. 

LXXXI 

'  As  flowers  turn  their  faces  to  the  sun, 

So  on  our  flight  with  hungry  eyes  they 
gaze, 

And,  as  we  shaped  our  course,  this,  that 
way  run, 

With  mad-cap  pleasure,  or  hand-clasp'd 
amaze : 

Sweet  in  the  air  a  mild-toned  music  plays, 

And   progresses   through  its  own  laby- 
rinth; 

Buds  gather'd  from  the  green  spring's 
middle-days, 

They   scatter'd  —  daisy,   primrose,   hya- 
cinth — 

Or  round   white   columns  wreathed  from 
capital  to  plinth. 

LXXXII 
'  Onward    we   floated   o'er   the   panting 

streets, 
That    seem'd    throughout   with    upheld 

faces  paved; 
Look  where  we  will,  our  bird's-eye  vision 

meets 


THE   CAP   AND   BELLS 


231 


Legions    of   holiday;    bright    standards 
waved, 

And  fluttering  ensigns  emulously  craved 

Our  minute's  glance;  a  busy  thunderous 
roar, 

From  square  to  square,  among  the  build- 
ings raved, 

As  when  the  sea,  at  flow,  gluts  up  once 

more 

The   craggy  hollo wness   of   a   wild-reefed 
shore. 

LXXXIII 

*  And  "  Bellanaine  for  ever  !  "  shouted 

they  ! 
While    that    fair     Princess,    from    her 

winged  chair, 
Bow'd  low  with  high  demeanour,  and,  to 

pay 

Their  new-blown   loyalty  with   guerdon 

fair, 
Still  emptied,  at  meet  distance,  here  and 

there, 

A  plenty  horn  of  jewels.     And  here  I 
(Who  wish  to  give  the  devil  her  due) 

declare 

Against  that  ugly  piece  of  calumny, 
Which  calls  them  Highland  pebble-stones 

not  worth  a  fly. 

LXXXIV 

« Still  "  Bellanaine  !  "  they  shouted,  while 

we  glide 

'Slant  to  a  light  Ionic  portico, 
The  city's  delicacy,  and  the  pride 
Of  our  Imperial  Basilic;  a  row 
Of  lords  and  ladies,  on  each  hand,  make 

show 

Submissive  of  knee-bent  obeisance, 
All  down  the  steps ;  and,  as  we  enter'd,  lo  ! 
The  strangest  sight  —  the  most  unlook'd- 

f or  chance  — 
All  things  tnru'd  topsy-turvy  in  a  devil's 

dance. 

LXXXV 

'  'Stead  of  his  anxious  Majesty  and  court 
At   the  open  doors,  with  wide   saluting 

eyes, 


Congees  and  scrape-graces  of  every  sort, 
And  all  the  smooth  routine  of  gallan- 
tries, 

Was  seen,  to  our  immoderate  surprise, 
A  motley  crowd  thick   gather'd  in  the 

hall, 
Lords,   scullions,   deputy-scullions,  with 

wild  cries 

Stunning  the  vestibule  from  wall  to  wall, 
Where  the  Chief  Justice  on  his  knees  and 
hands  doth  crawl. 

LXXXVI 

'  Counts  of  the  palace,  and  the  state  pur- 
veyor 
Of  moth's-down,  to  make  soft  the  roval 

beds, 
The  Common  Council  and  my  fool  Lord 

Mayor 
Marching    a-row,    each    other    slipshod 

treads ; 

Powder'd  bag-wigs  and  ruffy-tuffy  heads 
Of  cinder  wenches  meet  and  soil  each 

other; 
Toe  crush'd  with  heel  ill-natured  fighting 

breeds, 
Frill-rumpling  elbows  brew  up  many  a 

bother, 
And  fists  in  the  short  ribs  keep  up  the  yell 

and  pother. 

LXXXVII 

'  A  Poet,  mounted  on  the  Court-Clown's 

back, 
Rode  to  the  Princess  swift  with  spurring 

heels, 
And  close  into  her  face,  with  rhyming 

clack, 

Began  a  Prothalamion ;  —  she  reels, 
She  falls,  she  faints  !  —  while  laughter 

peals 
Over  her  woman's  weakness.    "  Where  !" 

cried  I, 
"  Where  is  his  Majesty  ?  "     No  person 

feels 

Inclined  to  answer;  wherefore  instantly 
I  plunged  into  the  crowd  to  find  him  or 

to  die. 


232 


THE   LAST    SONNET 


LXXXVIII 

*  Jostling  my  way  I  gain'd  the  stairs,  and 

ran 

To  the  first  landing,  where,  incredible  ! 
I  met,  far  gone  in  liquor,  that  old  man, 

That  vile  impostor  Hum, ' 

So  far  so  well,  — 

For  we  have  proved  the  Mago  never  fell 
Down  stairs  on  Crafticanto's  evidence; 
And  therefore  duly  shall  proceed  to  tell, 
Plain    in    our   own    original   mood   and 

tense, 
The  sequel  of  this  day,  though  labour  't  is 

immense  ! 


THE    LAST    SONNET 

On  his  way  to  Italy  as  his  last  chance  of  life, 
the  vessel  which  bore  Keats  had  been  beating 
about  the  English  Channel  for  a  fortnight, 
when  an  opportunity  was  given  for  landing  for 
a  brief  respite  on  the  Dorsetshire  coast.  '  The 
bright  beauty  of  the  day,'  says  Lord  Hough- 
ton,  Keats's  biographer, '  and  the  scene  revived 


the  poet's  drooping  heart,  and  the  inspiration 
remained  with  him  for  some  time  even  after 
his  return  to  the  ship.  It  was  then  that  he 
composed  that  sonnet  of  solemn  tenderness.' 
The  date  of  the  poem  would  thus  be  Septem- 
ber or  October,  1820. 

BRIGHT  star,  would   I  were  steadfast  as 

thou  art  ! 
Not  in   lone   splendour   hung   aloft  the 

night, 
And  watching,  with  eternal  lids  apart, 

Like  Nature's  patient  sleepless  Eremite, 

The  moving  waters  at  their  priestlike  task 

Of  pure  ablution  round  earth's  human 

shores 

Or  gazing  on  the  new  soft  fallen  mask 
Of   snow  upon   the    mountains    and  the 

moors : 

No  —  yet  still  steadfast,  still  unchangeable, 
Pillow'd   upon   my  fair   love's   ripening 

breast, 
To  feel  for  ever  its  soft  fall  and  swell, 

Awake  for  ever  in  a  sweet  unrest, 
Still,  still  to  hear  her  tender-taken  breath, 
And  so  live  ever  —  or  else  swoon  to  death. 


SUPPLEMENTARY   VERSE 


The  collection  which  follows  is  not  intended 
to  be  taken  exactly  as  containing  the  leavings 
of  Keats's  genius  ;  there  are  verses  in  the  pre- 
vious groups  which  might  be  placed  here,  if  the 
intention  was  to  make  a  marked  division  be- 
tween his  well-defined  poetry  and  his  experi- 
ments and  mere  scintillations ;  doubtless,  too, 


on  any  such  principle  it  would  be  just  to  take 
back  into  the  respectability  of  larger  type  some 
of  the  lines  here  included.  But  it  seemed  wise 
to  put  into  a  subordinate  group  the  poet's  frag- 
mentary and  posthumous  poems,  and  those 
which  were  plainly  the  mere  playthings  of  his 
muse. 


I.    HYPERION:    A   VISION 

Contributed  by  Lord  Houghton  to  the  third 
volume  of  the  Bibliographical  and  Historical 
Miscellanies  of  the  Philobiblion  Society,  1856- 
1857.  Lord  Houghton  afterward  included  it 
in  a  new  edition  of  The  Life  and  Letters  of 
John  Keats,  1867.  He  also  printed  it  in  the 
Aldine  edition  of  1876,  where  he  recorded  it 
as  an  early  version  of  the  poem.  But  Mr.  Col- 
vin  quotes  from  Brown's  MS. :  '  In  the  even- 
ings [of  November  and  December,  1819]  at  his 
own  desire,  he  occupied  a  separate  apartment, 
and  was  deeply  engaged  in  remodeling  the  frag- 
ment of  Hyperion  into  the  form  of  a  Vision.' 
This  attempt  may  well  have  added  to  Keats's 
reluctance  to  permit  the  fragmentary  Hyperion 
to  appear  in  the  1820  volume.  For  a  full  dis- 
cussion of  the  question  see  the  Appendix  in 
John  Keats  by  Sidney  Colvin. 

CANTO   I 

FANATICS  have  their  dreams,  wherewith  they 

weave 

A  paradise  for  a  sect ;  the  savage,  too, 
From  forth  the  loftiest  fashion  of  his  sleep 
Guesses  at  heaven  ;  pity  these  have  not 
Trac'd  upon  vellum  or  wild  Indian  leaf 
The  shadows  of  melodious  utterance, 
But  bare  of  laurel  they  live,  dream,  and  die  ; 
For  Poesy  alone  can  tell  her  dreams,  — 
With  the  fine  spell  of  words  alone  can  save 
Imagination  from  the  sable  chain  10 

And  dumb  enchantment.    Who  alive  can  say, 
'Thou    art    no    Poet  — may'st   not    tell    thy 

dreams '  ? 
Since  every  man  whose  soul  is  not  a  clod 


Hath  visions  and  would  speak,  if  he  had  loved, 
And  been  well  nurtured  in  his  mother  tongue. 
Whether  the  dream  now  purpos'd  to  rehearse 
Be  poet's  or  fanatic's  will  be  known 
When  this  warm  scribe,  my  hand,  is  in   the 
grave. 

Methought  I  stood  where  trees  of  every  clime. 
Palm,  myrtle,  oak,  and  sycamore,  and  beech,  20 
With    plantane    and    spice-blossoms,  made    a 

screen, 

In  neighbourhood  of  fountains  (by  the  noise 
Soft-showering  in  mine  ears),  and  (by  the  touch 
Of  scent)  not  far  from  roses.     Twining  round 
I  saw  an  arbour  with  a  drooping  roof 
Of  trellis  vines,  and  bells,  and  larger  blooms, 
Like  floral  censers,  swinging  light  in  air ; 
Before  its  wreathed  doorway,  on  a  mound 
Of  moss,  was  spread  a  feast  of  summer  fruits, 
Which,  nearer  seen,  seem'd  refuse  of  a  meal  30 
By  angel  tasted  or  our  Mother  Eve  ; 
For  empty  shells  were  scatter'd  on  the  grass, 
And  grapestalks  but  half -bare,  and  remnants 

more 
Sweet-smelling,  whose  pure  kinds  I  could  not 

know. 

Still  was  more  plenty  than  the  fabled  horn 
Thrice  emptied  could  pour  forth  at  banqueting, 
For  Proserpine  return'd  to  her  own  fields, 
Where  the  white  heifers  low.    And  appetite, 
More  yearning  than  on  earth  I  ever  felt, 
Growing  within,  I  ate  deliciously,  —  40 

And,  after  not  long,  thirsted  ;  for  thereby 
Stood  a  cool  vessel  of  transparent  juice 
Sipp'd  by  the  wander'd  bee,  the  which  I  took, 
And  pledging  all  the  mortals  of  the  world, 
And  all  the  dead  whose  names  are  in  our  lips, 
Drank.     That  full  draught  is  parent  of  my 

theme. 


234 


SUPPLEMENTARY   VERSE 


No  Asian  poppy  nor  elixir  fine 
Of  the  soon-fading,  jealous  Caliphat, 
No  poison  gender'd  in  close  monkish  cell, 
To  thin  the  scarlet  conclave  of  old  men,  50 

Could  so  have  rapt  unwilling  life  away. 
Among  the  fragrant  husks  and  berries  crush'd 
Upon  the  grass,  I  struggled  hard  against 
The  domineering  potion,  but  in  vain. 
The  cloudy  swoon  came  on,  and  down  I  sank, 
Like  a  Silenus  on  an  antique  vase. 
How  long  I  slumber'd  't  is  a  chance  to  guess. 
When  sense  of  life  return'd,  I  started  up 
As  if  with  wings,  but  the  fair  trees  were  gone, 
The  mossy  mound  and  arbour  were  no  more  :  60 
I  look'd  around  upon  the  curved  sides 
Of  an  old  sanctuary,  with  roof  august, 
Builded  so  high,  it  seem'd  that  filmed  clouds 
Might  spread  beneath  as  o'er  the  stars  of  hea- 
ven. 

So  old  the  place  was,  I  remember'd  none 
The  like  upon  the  earth :  what  I  had  seen 
Of  grey  cathedrals,  buttress'd  walls,  rent  tow- 
ers, 

The  superannuations  of  sunk  realms, 
Or  Nature's  rocks  toil'd   hard  in  waves  and 

winds, 

Seem'd  but  the  faulture  of  decrepit  things      70 
To  that  eternal  domed  monument. 
Upon  the  marble  at  my  feet  there  lay 
Store  of  strange  vessels  and  large  draperies, 
Which  needs  had  been  of  dyed  asbestos  wove, 
Or  in  that  place  the  moth  could  not  corrupt, 
So  white  the  linen,  so,  in  some,  distinct 
Ran  imageries  from  a  sombre  loom. 
All  in  a  mingled  heap  confus'd  there  lay 
Robes,  golden  tongs,  oenser  and  chafing-dish, 
Girdles,  and  chains,  and  holy  jewelries.  80 

Turning  from  these  with  awe,  once  more  I 

raised 

My  eyes  to  fathom  the  space  every  way  : 
The  embossed  roof,  the  silent  massy  range 
Of  columns  north  and  south,  ending  in  mist 
Of  nothing;    then  to  eastward,   where  black 

gates 

Were  shut  against  the  sunrise  evermore  ; 
Then  to  the  west  I  look'd,  and  saw  far  off 
An  image,  huge  of  feature  as  a  cloud, 
At  level  of  whose  feet  an  altar  slept, 
To  be  approach'd  on  either  side  by  steps         90 
And  marble  balustrade,  and  patient  travail 
To  count  with  toil  the  innumerable  degrees. 
Toward  the  altar  sober-pac'd  I  went, 
Repressing  haste  as  too  unholy  there  ; 
And,  coming  nearer,  saw  beside  the  shrine 
One  ministering ;  and  there  arose  a  flame 
When  in  mid-day  the  sickening  east-wind 


Shifts  sudden  to  the  south,  the  small  warm 

rain 

Melts  out  the  frozen  incense  from  all  flowers, 
And  fills  the  air  with  so  much  pleasant  health  100 
That  even  the  dying  man  forgets  his  shroud  ;  — 
Even  so  that  lofty  sacrificial  fire, 
Sending  forth  Maian  incense,  spread  around 
Forge tfulness  of  everything  but  bliss, 
And  clouded  all  the  altar  with  soft  smoke ; 
From  whose  white  fragrant  curtains  thus    I 

heard 

Language  pronounc'd :    '  If  thou  canst  not  as- 
cend 
These  steps,  die  on  that  marble  where   thou 

art. 

Thy  flesh,  near  cousin  to  the  common  dust, 
Will  parch  for  lack  of  nutriment ;  thy  bones  1 10 
Will  wither  in  few  years,  and  vanish  so 
That  not  the  quickest  eye  could  find  a  grain 
Of  what  thou  now  art  on  that  pavement  cold. 
The  sands  of    thy  short    life   are  spent    this 

hour, 

And  no  hand  in  the  universe  can  turn 
Thy  hourglass,  if  these  gummed  leaves  be  burnt 
Ere  thou  canst  mount  up  these  immortal  steps.' 
I  heard,  I  look'd :  two  senses  both  at  once, 
So  fine,  so  subtle,  felt  the  tyranny 
Of  that  fierce  threat  and  the  hard  task  pro- 
posed. 120 
Prodigious  seem'd  the  toil  ;  the  leaves  were  yet 
Burning,  when  suddenly  a  palsied  chill 
Struck  from  the  paved  level  up  my  limbs, 
And  was  ascending  quick  to  put  cold  grasp 
Upon  those  streams  that  pulse  beside  the  throat. 
I  shriek'd,  and  the  sharp  anguish  of  my  shriek 
Stung  my  own  ears  ;  I  strove  hard  to  escape 
The  numbness,  strove  to  gain  the  lowest  step. 
Slow,  heavy,  deadly  was  my  pace  :  the  cold 
Grew  stifling,  suffocating  at  the  heart ;           130 
And  when  I  clasp'd  my  hands  I  felt  them  not. 
One  minute  before  death  my  ic'd  foot  touch'd 
The  lowest  stair  ;  and,  as  it  touch'd,  life  seem'd 
To  pour  in  at  the  toes  ;  I  mounted  up 
As  once  fair  angels  on  a  ladder  flew 
From  the  green  turf  to  heaven.     '  Holy  Power,' 
Cried  I,  approaching  near  the  horned  shrine, 
'  What  am  I  that  should  so  be  saved  from 

death  ? 

What  am  I  that  another  death  come  not 
To  choke  my  utterance,  sacrilegious,  here  ?  '  140 
Then  said  the  veiled  shadow :  '  Thou  hast  felt 
What  't  is  to  die  and  live  again  before 
Thy  fated  hour ;  that  thou  hadst  power  to  do 

so 

Is  thine  own  safety  ;  thou  hast  dated  on 
Thy  doom.'     4  High  Prophetess,'  said  I,  '  purge 
off, 


HYPERION:    A   VISION 


235 


Benign,  if  so  it  please  thee,  my  mind's  film.' 
'None  can  usurp  this  height,'   return 'd  that 

shade, 

*  But  those  to  whom  the  miseries  of  the  world 
Are  misery,  and  will  not  let  them  rest. 
All  else  who  find  a  haven  in  the  world,  150 

Where  they  may  thoughtless  sleep  away  their 

days, 

If  by  a  chance  into  this  fane  they  come. 
Rot  on  the  pavement  where  thou  rottedst  half.' 
'  Are  there  not  thousands  in  the  world,'  said  I, 
Encourag'd  by  the  sooth  voice  of  the  shade, 
'  Who  love  their  fellows  even  to  the  death, 
Who  feel  the  giant  agony  of  the  world, 
And  more,  like  slaves  to  poor  humanity, 
Labour  for  mortal  good  ?     I  sure  should  see 
Other  men  here,  but  I  am  here  alone.'  160 

'  Those  whom  thou  spakest  of  are  no  visiona- 
ries,' 
Rejoin'd  that  voice  ;   '  they  are  no  dreamers 

weak  ; 

They  seek  no  wonder  but  the  human  face, 
No  music  but  a  happy-noted  voice  : 
They  come  not  here,  they  have  no  thought  to 

come ; 

And  thou  art  here,  for  thou  art  less  than  they. 
JSTiat  benefit  canst  thou  do,  or  all  thy  tribe, 
PTo  the  great  world?     Thou  art  a  dreaming 

thing, 

(^A  fever  of  thyself :  think  of  the  earth  ; 
What  bliss,  even  in  hope,  is  there  for  thee  ?  170 
What  haven  ?  every  creature  hath  its  home, 
Every  sole  man  hath  days  of  joy  and  pain, 
Whether  his  labours  be  sublime  or  low  — 
The  pain  alone,  the  joy  alone,  distinct : 
Only  the  dreamer  venoms  all  his  days, 
Bearing  more  woe  than  all  his  sins  deserve. 
Therefore,  that  happiness  be  somewhat  shared, 
Such  things  as  thou  art  are  admitted  oft 
Into  like  gardens  thou  didst  pass  ere  while, 
And  suffer'd  in  these  temples  :  for  that  cause  180 
Thou  standest  safe  beneath  this  statue's  knees.' 

4  That  I  am  favour'd  for  unworthiness, 
By  such  propitious  parley  medicined 
In  sickness  not  ignoble,  I  rejoice, 
Aye,  and  could  weep  for  love  of  such  award.' 
So  answer'd  I,  continuing,  '  If  it  please, 
Majestic  shadow,  tell  me  where  I  am, 
Whose  altar  this,  for  whom  this  incense  curls  ; 
What  image  this  whose  face  I  cannot  see 
For  the  broad  marble  knees ;  and  who  thou 

art,  190 

Of  accent  feminine  so  courteous  ?  ' 

Then  the  tall  shade,  in  drooping  linen  veil'd, 
Spoke  out,  so  much  more  earnest,  that  her 
breath 


Stirr'd  the  thin  folds  of  gauze  that  drooping 

hung 

About  a  golden  censer  from  her  hand 
Pendent ;  and  by  her  voice  I  knew  she  shed 
Long-treasured  tears.     '  This  temple,  sad  and 

lone, 

Is  all  spar'd  from  the  thunder  of  a  war 
Foughten  long  since  by  giant  hierarchy 
Against  rebellion :  this  old  image  here,  200 

Whose  carved  features  wrinkled  as  he  fell, 
Is  Saturn's  ;  I,  Moneta,  left  supreme, 
Sole  goddess  of  this  desolation.' 
I  had  no  words  to  answer,  for  my  tongue, 
Useless,  could  find  about  its  roofed  home 
No  syllable  of  a  fit  majesty 
To  make  rejoinder  to  Moneta's  mourn  : 
There  was  a  silence,  while  the  altar's  blaze 
Was  fainting  for  sweet  food.     I  look'd  thereon, 
And  on  the  paved  floor,  where  nigh  were  piled 
Faggots  of  cinnamon,  and  many  heaps  211 

Of  other  crisped  spicewood :  then  again 
I  look'd  upon  the  altar,  and  its  horns 
Whiten'd  with  ashes,  and  its  languorous  flame, 
And  then  upon  the  offerings  again  ; 
And  so,  by  turns,  till  sad  Moneta  cried : 
'  The  sacrifice  is  done,  but  not  the  less 
Will  I  be  kind  to  thee  for  thy  good  will. 
My  power,  which  to  me  is  still  a  curse, 
Shall  be  to  thee  a  wonder ;  for  the  scenes       220 
Still  swooning  vivid  through  my  globed  brain, 
With  an  electral  changing  misery, 
Thou  shalt  with  these  dull  mortal  eyes  behold 
Free  from  all  pain,  if  wonder  pain  thee  not.' 
As  near  as  an  immortal's  sphered  words 
Could  to  a  mother's  soften  were  these  last : 
And  yet  I  had  a  terror  of  her  robes, 
And  chiefly  of  the  veils  that  from  her  brow 
Hung  pale,  and  eurtain'd  her  in  mysteries, 
That  made  my  heart  too  small   to    hold  its 

blood.  230 

This  saw  that  Goddess,  and  with  sacred  hand 
Parted  the  veils.     Then  saw  I  a  wan  face, 
Not    pin'd    by    human    sorrows,    but    bright- 

blanch'd 

By  an  immortal  sickness  which  kills  not ; 
It  works  a  constant  change,  which  happy  death 
Can  put  no  end  to ;  deathwards  progressing 
To  no  death  was  that  visage  ;  it  had  past 
The  lily  and  the  snow  ;  and  beyond  these 
I  must  not  think  now,  though  I  saw  that  face. 
But  for  her  eyes  I  should  have  fled  away  ;     240 
They  held  me  back  with  a  benignant  light, 
Soft,  mitigated  by  divinest  lids 
Half-clos'd,  and  visionless  entire  they  seem'd 
Of  all  external  things  ;  they  saw  me  not, 
But  in  blank  splendour  beam'd,  like  the  mild 

moon, 


SUPPLEMENTARY   VERSE 


Who  comforts  those  she  sees  not,  who  knows 

not 

What  eyes  are  upward  cast.    As  I  had  found 
A  grain  of  gold  upon  a  mountain's  side, 
And,  twing'd  with  avarice,   strain'd  out  my 


To  search  its  sullen  entrails  rich  with  ore,      250 

So,  at  the  view  of  sad  Moneta's  brow, 

I  ask'd  to  see  what  things  the  hollow  brow 

Behind  environ'd :  what  high  tragedy 

In  the  dark  secret  chambers  of  her  skull 

Was  acting,  that  could  give  so  dread  a  stress 

To  her  cold  lips,  and  fill  with  such  a  light 

Her  planetary  eyes,  and  touch  her  voice 

With  such  a  sorrow  ?     '  Shade  of  Memory  I ' 

Cried  I,  with  act  adorant  at  her  feet, 

'By  all   the    gloom    hung   round    thy    fallen 

house,  260 

By  this  last  temple,  by  the  golden  age, 
By  great  Apollo,  thy  dear  foster-child, 
And  by  thyself,  forlorn  divinity, 
The  pale  Omega  of  a  wither'd  race, 
Let  me  behold,  according  as  thou  saidst, 
What  in  thy  brain  so  ferments  to  and  fro  ! ' 
No  sooner  had  this  conjuration  past 
My  devout  lips,  than  side  by  side  we  stood 
(Like  a  stunt  bramble  by  a  solemn  pine) 
Deep  in  the  shady  sadness  of  a  vale  270 

Far  sunken  from  the  healthy  breath  of  morn, 
Far  from  the  fiery  noon  and  eve's  one  star. 
Onward  I  look'd  beneath  the  gloomy  boughs, 
And  saw  what  first  I  thought  an  image  huge, 
Like  to  the  image  pedestall'd  so  high 
In  Saturn's  temple  ;  then  Moneta's  voice 
Came  brief  upon  mine  ear.     '  So  Saturn  sat 
When  he  had  lost  his  realms ; '  whereon  there 

grew 

A  power  within  me  of  enormous  ken 
To  see  as  a  god  sees,  and  take  the  depth         280 
Of  things  as  nimbly  as  the  outward  eye 
Can  size  and  shape  pervade.    The  lofty  theme 
Of  those  few  words  hung  vast  before  my  mind 
With  half-unravell'd  web.     I  sat  myself 
Upon  an  eagle's  watch,  that  I  might  see, 
And  seeing  ne'er  forget.     No  stir  of  life 
Was  in  this  shrouded  vale,  —  not  so  much  air 
As  in  the  zoning  of  a  summer's  day 
Robs  not  one  light  seed  from  the  feather' d  grass 
But  where  the  dead  leaf  fell  there  did  it  rest. 
A  stream  went  noiseless  by,  still  deaden'd  more 
By  reason  of  the  fallen  divinity  292 

Spreading  more  shade ;   the   Naiad   'mid  her 

reeds 
Prest  her  cold  finger  closer  to  her  lips. 

Along  the  margin-sand  large  foot-marks  went 
No  further  than  to  where  old  Saturn's  feet 


Had  rested,  and  there  slept  how  long  a  sleep  ! 
Degraded,  cold,  upon  the  sodden  ground 
His  old  right  hand  lay  nerveless,  listless,  dead, 
Unsceptred,  and  his  realmless  eyes  were  closed  ; 
While  his  bowed  head  seem'd  listening  to  the 
Earth,  301 

His  ancient  mother,  for  some  comfort  yet. 

It  seem'd  no  force  could  wake  him  from  his 

place  ; 

But  there  came  one  who,  with  a  kindred  hand, 
Touch'd  his  wide  shoulders,  after  bending  low 
With  reverence,  though  to  one  who  knew  it  not. 
Then  came  the  griev'd  voice  Mnemosyne, 
And  griev'd  I  hearken'd.     '  That  divinity 
Whom  thou  saw'st  step  from  yon  forlornest 

wood,  309 

And  with  slow  pace  approach  our  fallen  king, 
Is  Thea,  softest-natured  of  our  brood.' 
I  mark'd  the  Goddess,  in  fair  statuary 
Surpassing  wan  Moneta  by  the  head, 
And  in  her  sorrow  nearer  woman's  tears. 
There  was  a  list'ning  fear  in  her  regard, 
As  if  calamity  had  but  begun  ; 
As  if  the  venom' d  cloud  of  evil  days 
Had  spent  their  malice,  and  the  sullen  rear 
Was  with  its  stored  thunder  labouring  up, 
One  hand  she  press'd  upon  that  aching  spot  320 
Where  beats  the  human  heart,  as  if  just  there, 
Though  an  immortal,  she  felt  cruel  pain  ; 
The  other  upon  Saturn's  bended  neck 
She  laid,  and  to  the  level  of  his  ear 
Leaning,  with  parted  lips  some  words  she  spoke 
In  solemn  tenour  and  deep  organ-tone  ; 
Some  mourning  words,   which    in    our  feeble 

tongue 

Would  come  in  this  like  accenting  ;  how  frail 
To  that  large  utterance  of  the  early  gods ! 

'  Saturn,   look  up  !   and  for  what,  poor  lost 
king  ?  330 

I  have  no  comfort  for  thee  ;  no,  not  one  ; 
I  cannot  say,  wherefore  thus  sleepest  thou  ? 
For  Heaven  is  parted  from  thee,  and  the  Earth 
Knows  thee  not,  so  afflicted,  for  a  god. 
The  Ocean,  too,  with  all  its  solemn  noise, 
Has  from  thy  sceptre  pass'd  ;  and  all  the  air 
Is  emptied  of  thy  hoary  majesty. 
Thy  thunder,  captious  at  the  new  command, 
Rumbles  reluctant  o'er  our  fallen  house  ; 
And  thy  sharp  lightning,  in  unpractis'd  hands, 
Scourges  and  burns  our  once  serene  domain.  341 

'  With  such  remorseless  speed  still  come  new 

woes, 

That  unbelief  has  not  a  space  to  breathe. 
Saturn  !  sleep  on  :  me  thoughtless,  why  should  I 


HYPERION:   A   VISION 


237 


Thus  violate  thy  slumbrous  solitude  ? 
Why  should  I  ope  thy  melancholy  eyes  ? 
Saturn !  sleep  on,  while  at  thy  feet  I  weep.' 

As  when  upon  a  tranced  summer-night 
Forests,  branch-charmed  by  the  earnest  stars, 
Dream,  and  so  dream  all  night  without  a  noise, 
Save  from  one  gradual  solitary  gust  351 

Swelling  upon  the  silence,  dying  off, 
As  if  the  ebbing  air  had  but  one  wave, 
So  came  these  words  and  went ;  the  while  in 

tears 

She  prest  her  fair  large  forehead  to  the  earth, 
Just  where   her   fallen  hair  might  spread  in 

curls, 

A  soft  and  silken  net  for  Saturn's  feet. 
Long,  long  these  two  were  postured  motionless, 
Like  sculpture  builded-up  upon  the  grave 
Of  their  own  power.     A  long  awful  time        360 
I  look'd  upon  them :  still  they  were  the  same  ; 
The  frozen  God  still  bending  to  the  earth, 
And  the  sad  Goddess  weeping  at  his  feet ; 
Moneta  silent.    Without  stay  or  prop 
But  my  own  weak  mortality,  I  bore 
The  load  of  this  eternal  quietude, 
The  unchanging  gloom    and  the    three  fixed 

shapes 

Ponderous  upon  my  senses,  a  whole  moon  ; 
For  by  my  burning  brain  I  measured  sure 
Her  silver  seasons  shedded  on  the  night,        37° 
And  every  day  by  day  methought  I  grew 
More  gaunt  and  ghostly.    Oftentimes  I  pray'd 
Intense,  that  death  would  take  me  from  the 

vale 

And  all  its  burthens  ;  gasping  with  despair 
Of  change,  hour  after  hour  I  curs' d  myself, 
Until  old  Saturn  rais'd  his  faded  eyes, 
And  look'd  around  and  saw  his  kingdom  gone, 
And  all  the  gloom  and  sorrow  of  the  place, 
And  that  fair  kneeling  Goddess  at  his  feet. 

As  the  moist  scent  of  flowers,  and  grass,  and 
leaves  380 

Fills  forest-dells  with  a  pervading  air, 
Known  to  the  woodland  nostril,  so  the  words 
Of  Saturn  fill'd  the  mossy  glooms  around, 
Even  to  the  hollows  of  time-eaten  oaks, 
And  to  the  windings  of  the  foxes'  hole, 
With  sad,  low  tones,  while  thus  he  spoke,  and 

sent 

Strange  moanings  to  the  solitary  Pan. 
4  Moan,  brethren,  moan,  for  we  are  swallow'd 

up 

And  buried  from  all  godlike  exercise 
Of  influence  benign  on  planets  pale,  390 

And  peaceful  sway  upon  man's  harvesting, 
And  all  those  acts  which  Deity  supreme 


Doth  ease  its  heart  of  love  in.  Moan  and  wail ; 
Moan,  brethren,  moan  ;  for  lo,  the  rebel  spheres 
Spin  round ;  the  stars  their  ancient  courses 

keep  ; 
Clouds  still  with  shadowy  moisture  haunt  the 

earth, 

Still  suck  their  fill  of  light  from  sun  and  moon  ; 
Still  buds  the  tree,  and  still  the  seashores  mur- 
mur ; 

There  is  no  death  in  all  the  universe, 
No  smell  of  death. —  There   shall  be  death. 
Moan,  moan ;  400 

Moan,  Cybele,  moan  ;  for  thy  pernicious  babes 
Have  chang'd  a  god  into  an  aching  palsy. 
Moan,  brethren,  moan,  for  I  have  no  strength 

left; 

Weak  as  the  reed,  weak,  feeble  as  my  voice. 
Oh  !  Oh  !  the  pain,  the  pain  of  feebleness  ; 
Moan,  moan,  for  still  I  thaw  ;  or  give  me  help, 
Throw  down  those  imps,  and  give  me  victory. 
Let  me  hear  other  groans,  and  trumpets  blown 
Of  triumph  calm,  and  hymns  of  festival, 
From  the  gold  peaks  of  heaven's  high-piled 
clouds ;  410 

Voices  of  soft  proclaim,  and  silver  stir 
Of  strings  in  hollow  shells  ;  and  there  shall  be 
Beautiful  things  made  new,  for  the  surprise 
Of  the  sky-children.'    So  he  feebly  ceased, 
With  such  a  poor  and  sickly-sounding  pause, 
Methought  I  heard  some  old  man  of  the  earth 
Bewailing  earthly  loss  ;  nor  could  my  eyes 
And  ears  act  with  that  unison  of  sense 
Which  marries  sweet  sound  with  the  grace  of 

form, 

And  dolorous  accent  from  a  tragic  harp         420 
With  large  limb'd  visions.    More  I  scrutinized. 
Still  fixt  he  sat  beneath  the  sable  trees, 
Whose  arms  spread  straggling  in  wild  serpent 

forms, 
With  leaves  all  hush'd ;    his  awful  presence 

there 

(Now  all  was  silent)  gave  a  deadly  lie 
To  what  I  erewhile  heard :  only  his  lips 
Trembled  amid  the  white  curls  of  his  beard  ; 
They  told  the  truth,  though  round  the  snowy 

locks 

Hung  nobly,  as  upon  the  face  of  heaven 
A  mid-day  fleece  of  cloud|.     Thea  arose        43° 
And  stretcht  her  white  arm  through  the  hol- 
low dark, 

Pointing  somewhither  :  whereat  he  too  rose, 
Like  a  vast  giant,  seen  by  men  at  sea 
To  grow  pale  from  the  waves  at  dull  mid- 
night. 

They  melted  from  my  sight  into  the  woods  ; 
Ere  I  could  turn,  Moneta  cried,  '  These  twain 
Are  speeding  to  the  families  of  grief, 


SUPPLEMENTARY   VERSE 


Where,  rooft  in  by  black  rocks,  they  waste  in 

pain 
And  darkness,  for  no  hope.'    And  she  spake 

on, 

As  ye  may  read  who  can  unwearied  pass         440 
Onward  from  the  antechamber  of  this  dream, 
Where,  even  at  the  open  doors,  awhile 
I  must  delay,  and  glean  my  memory 
Of  her  high  phrase  —  perhaps  no  further  dare. 


CANTO   II 

'  Mortal,  that  thou  may'st  understand  aright, 
I  humanize  my  sayings  to  thine  ear, 
Making  comparisons  of  earthly  things  ; 
Or  thou  might'st  better  listen  to  the  wind, 
Whose  language  is  to  thee  a  barren  noise, 
Though  it  blows  legend-laden  thro'  the  trees. 
In  melancholy  realms  big  tears  are  shed, 
More  sorrow  like  to  this,  and  such  like  woe, 
Too  huge  for  mortal  tongue  or  pen  of  scribe. 
The  Titans  fierce,  self -hid  or  prison-bound,      10 
Groan  for  the  old  allegiance  once  more, 
Listening  in  their  doom  for  Saturn's  voice. 
But  one  of  the  whole  eagle-brood  still  keeps 
His  sovereignty,  and  rule,  and  majesty : 
Blazing  Hyperion  on  his  orbed  fire 
Still  sits,  still  snuffs  the  incense  teeming  up 
From  Man  to  the  Sun's  God  —  yet  insecure. 
For  as  upon  the  earth  dire  prodigies 
Fright  and  perplex,  so  also  shudders  he  ; 
Not  at  dog's  howl  or  gloom-bird's  hated  screech, 
Or  the  familiar  visiting  of  one  2 1 

Upon  the  first  toll  of  his  passing  bell, 
Or  prophesyings  of  the  midnight  lamp  ; 
But  horrors,  portioned  to  a  giant  nerve, 
Make  great  Hyperion  ache.     His  palace  bright, 
Bastion' d  with  pyramids  of  shining  gold, 
And  touch'd  with  shade  of  bronzed  obelisks, 
Glares  a  blood-red  thro'  all  the  thousand  courts, 
Arches,  and  domes,  and  fiery  galleries  ; 
And  all  its  curtains  of  Aurorian  clouds  30 

Flash  angerly ;  when  he  would  taste  the  wreaths 
Of  incense  breath'd  aloft  from  sacred  hills, 
Instead  of  sweets,  his  ample  palate  takes 
Savour  of  poisonous  brass  and  metals  sick  ; 
Wherefore  when  ha»bour'd  in  the  sleepy  West, 
After  the  full  completion  of  fair  day, 
For  rest  divine  upon  exalted  couch, 
And  slumber  in  the  arms  of  melody, 
He  paces  through  the  pleasant  hours  of  ease, 
With  strides  colossal,  on  from  hall  to  hall,       4° 
While  far  within  each  aisle  and  deep  recess 
His  winged  minions  in  close  clusters  stand 
Amaz'd,  and  full  of  fear ;  like  anxious  men, 
Who  on  a  wide  plain  gather  in  sad  troops, 


When  earthquakes  jar  their  battlements  and 

towers. 

Even  now  where  Saturn,  rous'd  from  icy  trance. 
Goes  step  for  step  with  Thea  from  yon  woods, 
Hyperion,  leaving  twilight  in  the  rear, 
Is  sloping  to  the  threshold  of  the  West. 
Thither  we  tend.'     Now  in  clear  light  I  stood, 
Reliev'd  from  the  dusk  vale.    Mnemosyne      51 
Was  sitting  on  a  square-edg'd  polish'd  stone, 
That  in  its  lucid  depths  reflected  pure 
Her  priestess'  garments.    My  quick  eyes  ran  on 
From  stately  nave  to  nave,  from  vault  to  vault, 
Through  bow'rs  of  fragrant  and  enwreathed 

light, 

And  diamond-paved  lustrous  long  arcades. 
Anon  rush'd  by  the  bright  Hyperion  ; 
His  flaming  robes  stream 'd  out  beyond  his  heels, 
And  gave  a  roar  as  if  of  earthy  fire,  60 

That  scar'd  away  the  meek  ethereal  hours, 
And  made  their  dove- wings  tremble.    On  he 

flared. 

II.   FRAGMENTS 

The  three  fragments  that  follow  are  pub- 
lished in  Life,  Letters  and  Literary  Remains, 
without  date. 


WHERE  's  the  Poet  ?    Show  him  !  show  him, 
Muses  nine  !  that  I  may  know  him  ! 
'Tis  the  man  who  with  a  man 

Is  an  equal,  be  he  King, 
Or  poorest  of  the  beggar-clan, 

Or  any  other  wondrous  thing 
A  man  may  be  'twixt  ape  and  Plato  ; 

'T  is  the  man  who  with  a  bird, 
Wren,  or  Eagle,  finds  his  way  to 

All  its  instincts ;  he  hath  heard 
The  Lion's  roaring,  and  can  tell 

What  his  horny  throat  expresseth, 
And  to  him  the  Tiger's  yell 

Comes  articulate  and  presseth 
On  his  ear  like  mother- tongue. 


MODERN    LOVE 

AND  what  is  love  ?    It  is  a  doll  dress'd  up 
For  idleness  to  cosset,  nurse,  and  dandle  ; 
A  thing  of  soft  misnomers,  so  divine 
That  silly  youth  doth  think  to  make  itself 
Divine  by  loving,  and  so  goes  on 
Yawning  and  doting  a  whole  summer  long, 
Till  Miss's  comb  is  made  a  pearl  tiara, 


FRAGMENTS 


239 


And  common  Wellingtons  turn  Romeo  boots  ; 
Then  Cleopatra  lives  at  number  seven, 
And  Antony  resides  in  Brunswick  Square. 
Fools  !  if  some  passions  high  have  warm'd  the 

world, 
If  Queens  and  Soldiers  have  play'd  deep  for 

hearts, 

It  is  no  reason  why  such  agonies 
Should  be  more  common  than  the  growth  of 

weeds. 
Fools !    make  me  whole   again    that   weighty 

pearl 

The  Queen  of  Egypt  melted,  and  I  '11  say 
That  ye  may  love  in  spite  of  beaver  hats. 


FRAGMENT    OF    'THE   CASTLE   BUILDER* 

TO-NIGHT  I  '11  have  my  friar  —  let  me  think 
About  my  room  —  I  '11  have  it  in  the  pink  ; 
It  should  be  rich  and  sombre,  and  the  moon, 
Just  in  its  mid-life  in  the  midst  of  June, 
Should  look  thro'  four  large  windows  and  dis- 
play 

Clear,  but  for  gold-fish  vases  in  the  way, 
Their  glassy  diamonding  on  Turkish  floor ; 
The  tapers  keep  aside,  an  hour  and  more, 
To  see  what  else  the  moon  alone  can  show  ; 
While  the  night-breeze  doth  softly  let  us  know 
My  terrace  is  well  bower'd  with  oranges. 
Upon  the  floor  the  dullest  spirit  sees 
A  guitar-ribband  and  a  lady's  glove 
Beside  a  crumple-leaved  tale  of  love  ; 
A  tambour-frame,  with  Venus  sleeping  there, 
All  finish'd  but  some  ringlets  of  her  hair  ; 
A  viol,  bow-strings  torn,  cross-wise  upon 
A  glorious  folio  of  Anacreon  ; 
A  skull  upon  a  mat  of  roses  lying, 
Ink'd  purple  with  a  song  concerning  dying  ; 
An  hour-glass  on  the  turn,  amid  the  trails 
Of  passion-flower ;  —  just  in  time  there  sails 
A  cloud  across  the  moon,  —  the  lights  bring 

in! 

And  see  what  more  my  phantasy  can  win. 
It  is  a  gorgeous  room,  but  somewhat  sad ; 
The  draperies  are  so,  as  tho'  they  had 
Been  made  for  Cleopatra's  winding-sheet ; 
And  opposite  the  stedfast  eye  doth  meet 
A  spacious  looking-glass,  upon  whose  face, 
In  letters  raven-sombre,  you  may  trace 
Old  l  Mene,  Mene,  Tekel  Upharsin.' 
Greek  busts  and  statuary  have  ever  been 
Held,  by  the  finest  spirits,  fitter  far, 
Than  vase  grotesque  and  Siamesian  jar  ; 
Therefore  't  is  sure  a  want  of  Attic  taste 


That  I  should  rather  love  a  Gothic  waste 
Of  eyesight  on  cinque-coloured  potter's  clay, 
Than  on  the  marble  fairness  of  old  Greece. 
My  table-coverlits  of  Jason's  fleece 
And  black  Numidian  sheep -wool  should    be 

wrought, 

Gold,  black,  and  heavy,  from  the  Lama  brought. 
My  ebon  sofas  should  delicious  be 
With  down  from  Leda's  cygnet  progeny. 
My  pictures  all  Salvator's,  save  a  few 
Of  Titian's  portraiture,  and  one,  though  new, 
Of  Hay  don's  in  its  fresh  magnificence. 
My  wine  —  O  good  !  't  is  here  at  my  desire, 
And  I  must  sit  to  supper  with  my  friar. 


IV 


EXTRACTS   FROM    AN   OPERA 

First  given  in  Life,  Letters  and  Literary  Re- 
mains, and  there  dated  1818.  In  that  case,  it  is 
most  likely  that  the  verses  formed  a  portion  of 
some  experiment  going  on  to  the  autumn  after 
Keats's  return  from  his  northern  journey. 

O  !  WERE  I  one  of  the  Olympian  twelve, 
Their  godships  should  pass  this  into  a  law,  — 
That  when  a  man  doth  set  himself  in  toil 
After  some  beauty  veiled  far  away, 
Each  step  he  took    should    make  his   lady's 

hand 
More  soft,  more  white,  and  her  fair  cheek  more 

fair  ; 

And  for  each  briar-berry  he  might  eat, 
A  kiss  should  bud  upon  the  tree  of  love, 
And  pulp  and  ripen  richer  every  hour, 
To  melt  away  upon  the  traveller's  lips. 


DAISY'S  SONG 

THE  sun,  with  his  great  eye, 
Sees  not  so  much  as  I ; 
And  the  moon,  all  silver-proud, 
Might  as  well  be  in  a  cloud. 

And  O  the  spring  —  the  spring  ! 
I  lead  the  life  of  a  King ! 
Couch 'd  in  the  teeming  grass, 
I  spy  each  pretty  lass. 

I  look  where  no  one  dares, 
And  I  stare  where  no  one  stares, 
And  when  the  night  is  nigh, 
Lambs  bleat  my  lullaby. 


240 


SUPPLEMENTARY   VERSE 


FOLLY'S  SONG 

WHEN  wedding  fiddles  are  a-playing, 

Huzza  for  folly  0 ! 
And  when  maidens  go  a-Maying, 

Huzza,  etc. 
When  a  milk-pail  is  upset, 

Huzza,  etc. 
And  the  clothes  left  in  the  wet, 

Huzza,  etc. 
When  the  barrel 's  set  abroach, 

Huzza,  etc. 
When  Kate  Eyebrow  keeps  a  coach, 

Huzza,  etc. 
When  the  pig  is  over-roasted, 

Huzza,  etc. 
And  the  cheese  is  over-toasted. 

Huzza,  etc. 
When  Sir  Snap  is  with  his  lawyer, 

Huzza,  etc. 
And  Miss  Chip  has  kiss'd  the  sawyer  ; 

Huzza,  etc. 


OH,  I  am  f righten'd  with  most  hateful  thoughts ! 
Perhaps  her  voice  is  not  a  nightingale's, 
Perhaps  her  teeth  are  not  the  fairest  pearl ; 
Her  eye-lashes  may  be,  for  aught  I  know, 
Not    longer    than    the    May-fly's    small    fan- 
horns  ; 

There  may  not  be  one  dimple  on  her  hand  ; 
And  freckles  many  ;  ah  !  a  careless  nurse, 
In  haste  to  teach  the  little  thing  to  walk, 
May  have  crumpt  up  a  pair  of  Dian's  legs, 
And  warpt  the  ivory  of  a  Juno's  neck. 


SONG 

THE  stranger  lighted  from  his  steed, 
And  ere  he  spake  a  word, 

He  seiz'd  my  lady's  lily  hand, 
And  kiss'd  it  all  unheard. 

The  stranger  walk'd  into  the  hall, 
And  ere  he  spake  a  word. 

He  kiss'd  my  lady's  cherry  lips, 
And  kiss'd  'em  all  unheard. 

The  stranger  walk'd  into  the  bower, 
But  my  lady  first  did  go,  — 

Ay  hand  in  hand  into  the  bower, 
Where  my  lord's  roses  blow. 

My  lady's  maid  had  a  silken  scarf, 
And  a  golden  ring  had  she, 


And  a  kiss  from  the  stranger,  as  off  he  went 
Again  on  his  palfrey. 


ASLEEP  !  0  sleep  a  little  while,  white  pearl ! 
And  let  me  kneel,  and  let  me  pray  to  thee, 
And  let  me  call  Heaven's  blessing  on  thine 

eyes, 

And  let  me  breathe  into  the  happy  air, 
That  doth  enfold  and  touch  thee  all  about, 
Vows  of  my  slavery,  my  giving  up, 
My  sudden  adoration,  my  great  love ! 

III.  FAMILIAR   VERSES 

STANZAS   TO    MISS   WYLIE 

These  verses  belong  to  1816.  It  is  not  im- 
possible that  like  the  valentine  on  p.  11,  they 
were  written  for  the  use  of  George  Keats. 

0  COME,  Georgiana !  the  rose  is  full  blown, 
The  riches  of  Flora  are  lavishly  strown, 
The  air  is  all  softness,  and  crystal  the  streams  ; 
The  West  is  resplendentiy  clothed  in  beams. 

0  come  !  let  us  haste  to  the  freshening  shades, 
The  quaintly  carv'd  seats,   and   the    opening 

glades  ; 
Where  the  faeries  are  chanting  their  evening 

hymns, 
And  the  last  sun-beam  the  sylph  lightly  swims. 

And  when  thou  art  weary,  I  '11  find  thee  a  bed 
Of  mosses  and  flowers  to  pillow  thy  head  : 
And  there  Georgiana  I  '11  sit  at  thy  feet, 
While  my  story  of  love  I  enraptur'd  repeat. 

So  fondly  I  '11  breathe,  and  so  softly  I  '11  sigh, 
Thou  wilt  think  that  some  amorous  zephyr  is 

nigh ; 

Yet  no  — as  I  breathe  I  will  press  thy  fair  knee. 
And  then  thou  wilt  know  that  the  sigh  comes 

from  me. 

Ah  !  why,  dearest  girl,  should  we  lose  all  these 

blisses  ? 

That  mortal 's  a  fool  who  such  happiness  misses  : 
So  smile  acquiescence,  and  give  me  thy  hand, 
With  love-looking  eyes,  and  with  voice  sweetly 

bland. 

EPISTLE  TO   JOHN    HAMILTON  REYNOLDS 

'  My  dear  Reynolds,'  writes  Keats  from 
Teignmouth,  March  25,  1818,  'In  hopes  of 
cheering  you  through  a  minute  or  two,  I  was 


FAMILIAR   VERSES 


241 


determined,  will  he,  nill  he,  to  send  you  some 
lines,  so  you  will  excuse  the  unconnected  sub- 
ject and  careless  verse.  You  know,  I  am  sure, 
Claude's  Enchanted  Castle,  and  I  wish  you  may 
be  pleased  with  my  remembrance  of  it.' 

DEAR  Reynolds !    As  last  night  I  lay  in  bed, 
There  came  before  my  eyes  that  wonted  thread 
Of  shapes,  and  shadows,  and  remembrances, 
That  every  other  minute  vex  and  please : 
Things   all    disjointed  come  from   north  and 

south,  — 

Two  Witch's  eyes  above  a  Cherub's  mouth, 
Voltaire  with  casque  and  shield  and  habergeon, 
And  Alexander  with  his  nightcap  on  ; 
Old  Socrates  a-tying  his  cravat, 
And  Hazlitt   playing  with  Miss  Edgeworth's 

cat ;  10 

And  Junius  Brutus,  pretty  well  so  so, 
Making  the  best  of  's  way  towards  Soho. 

Few  are  there  who  escape  these  visitings,  — 
Perhaps  one  or  two  whose  lives  have  patent 

wings, 

And  thro'  whose  curtains  peeps  no  hellish  nose, 
No  wild-boar  tushes,  and  no  Mermaid's  toes ; 
But  flowers  bursting  out  with  lusty  pride, 
And  young  ^Eolian  harps  personify'd  ; 
Some  Titian  colours  touch'd  into  real  life,  — 
The  sacrifice  goes  on  ;  the  pontiff  knife  20 

Gleams  in  the  Sun,  the  milk-white  heifer  lows, 
The  pipes  go  shrilly,  the  libation  flows  : 
A  white  sail  shows  above  the  green-head  cliff, 
Moves  round  the  point,  and  throws  her  anchor 

stiff; 
The  mariners  join  hymn  with  those  on  land. 

You  know  the  Enchanted  Castle,  —  it  doth 

stand 

Upon  a  rock,  on  the  border  of  a  Lake, 
Nested  in  trees,  which  all  do  seem  to  shake 
From  some  old  magic-like  Urganda's  sword. 
0  Phoabus  !  that  I  had  thy  sacred  word  30 

To  show  this  Castle,  in  fair  dreaming  wise, 
Unto  my  friend,  while  sick  and  ill  he  lies ! 

You  know  it  well  enough,  where  it  doth  seem 
A  mossy  place,  a  Merlin's  Hall,  a  dream  ; 
You  know  the  clear  Lake,  and  the  little  Isles, 
The  mountains  blue,  and  cold  near  neighbour 

rills, 

All  which  elsewhere  are  but  half  animate  ; 
There  do  they  look  alive  to  love  and  hate, 
To  smiles  and  frowns ;  they  seem  a  lifted 

mound 
Above  some  giant,  pulsing  underground.          40 


Part  of  the  building  was  a  chosen  See, 
Built  by  a  banish'd  Santon  of  Chaldee  ; 
The  other  part,  two  thousand  years  from  him, 
Was  built  by  Cuthbert  de  Saint  Aldebrim ; 
Then  there 's  a  little  wing,  far  from  the  Sun, 
Built  by  a  Lapland  Witch  turn'd  maudlin  Nun  ; 
And  many  other  juts  of  aged  stone 
Founded  with  many  a  mason-devil's  groan. 

The  doors  all  look  as  if  they  op'd  themselves : 
The  windows  as  if  latch'd  by  Fays  and  Elves,  5° 
And  from  them  comes  a  silver  flash  of  light, 
As  from  the  westward  of  a  Summer's  night; 
Or  like  a  beauteous  woman's  large  blue  eyes 
Gone  mad  through  olden  songs  and  poesies. 

See  !  what  is  coming  from  the  distance  dim  ! 
A  golden  Galley  all  in  silken  trim ! 
Three  rows  of   oars   are   lightening,  moment 

whiles 

Into  the  verd'rous  bosoms  of  those  isles ; 
Towards  the  shade,  under  the  Castle  wall. 
It  comes  in  silence,  —  now  't  is  hidden  all.       60 
The  Clarion  sounds,  and  from  a  Postern-gate 
An  echo  of  sweet  music  doth  create 
A  fear  in  the  poor  Herdsman  who  doth  bring 
His  beasts  to  trouble  the  enchanted  spring,  — 
He  tells  of  the  sweet  music,  and  the  spot, 
To  all  his  friends,  and  they  believe  him  not. 

O  that  our  dreamings  all,  of  sleep  or  wake, 
Would  all  their  colours  from  the  sunset  take  : 
From  something  of  material  sublime,  69 

Rather  than  shadow  our  own  soul's  day-time 
In  the  dark  void  of  night.     For  in  the  world 
We  jostle,  — but  my  flag  is  not  unfurl' d 
On  the  Admiral-staff,  —  and  so  philosophise 
I  dare  not  yet !     O,  never  will  the  prize, 
High  reason,  and  the  love  of  good  and  ill, 
Be  my  award  !    Things  cannot  to  the  will 
Be  settled,  but  they  tease  us  out  of  thought ; 
Or  is  it  imagination  brought 
Beyond  its  proper  bound,  yet  still  confin'd, 
Lost  in  a  sort  of  Purgatory  blind,  80 

Cannot  refer  to  any  standard  law 
Of  either  earth  or  heaven  ?     It  is  a  flaw 
In  happiness,  to  see  beyond  our  bourn.  — 
It  forces  us  in  summer  skies  to  mourn, 
It  spoils  the  singing  of  the  Nightingale. 

Dear  Reynolds  !    I  have  a  mysterious  tale, 
And  cannot  speak  it :  the  first  page  I  read 
Upon  a  Lampit  rock  of  green  sea-weed 
Among  the  breakers  ;  't  was  a  quiet  eve, 
The  rocks  were  silent,  the  wide  sea  did  weave 
An  untumultuous  fringe  of  silver  foam  9' 

Along  the  flat  brown  sand ;  I  was  at  home 


242 


SUPPLEMENTARY   VERSE 


And  should  have  been  most  happy,  —  but  I  saw 

Too  far  into  the  sea,  where  every  maw 

The  greater  on  the  less  feeds  evermore.  — 

But  I  saw  too  distinct  into  the  core 

Of  an  eternal  fierce  destruction, 

And  so  from  happiness  I  far  was  gone. 

Still  am  I  sick  of  it,  and  tho'  to-day, 

I  've  gather'd  young  spring-leaves,  and  flowers 

gay  ioo 

Of  periwinkle  and  wild  strawberry, 
Still  do  I  that  most  fierce  destruction  see,  — 
The  Shark  at  savage  prey,  —  the    Hawk    at 

pounce,  — 

The  gentle  Robin,  like  a  Pard  or  Ounce, 
Ravening  a  worm,  —  Away,  ye  horrid  moods  ! 
Moods  of  one's  mind  !    You  know  I  hate  them 

well. 

You  know  I  'd  sooner  be  a  clapping  Bell 
To  some  Kamschatkan  Missionary  Church, 
Than  with  these  horrid  moods  be  left  i'  the 

lurch. 

A    DRAUGHT   OF    SUNSHINE 

Sent  in  a  letter  to  Reynolds,  dated  January 
31, 1818.  '  I  cannot  write  in  prose,'  says  Keats ; 
'  it  is  a  sunshiny  day  and  I  cannot,  so  here 
goes.' 

HENCE  Burgundy,  Claret,  and  Port, 

Away  with  old  Hock  and  Madeira, 
Too  earthly  ye  are  for  my  sport ; 

There  's  a  be'verage  brighter  and  clearer. 
Instead  of  a  pitiful  rummer, 
My  wine  overbrims  a  v/hole  summer ; 

My  bowl  is  the  sky, 

And  I  drink  at  my  eye, 

Till  I  feel  in  the  brain 

A  Delphian  pain  — 
Then  follow,  my  Caius  !  then  follow : 

On  the  green  of  the  hill 

We  will  drink  our  fill 

Of  golden  sunshine, 

Till  our  brains  intertwine 
With  the  glory  and  grace  of  Apollo  ! 
God  of  the  Meridian, 

And  of  the  East  and  West, 
To  thee  my  soul  is  flown, 

And  my  body  is  earthward  press'd.  — 
It  is  an  awful  mission, 
A  terrible  division  ; 
And  leaves  a  gulf  austere 
To  be  fill'd  with  worldly  fear. 
Aye,  when  the  soul  is  fled 
To  high  above  our  head, 
Affrighted  do  we  gaze 
After  its  airy  maze, 


As  doth  a  mother  wild, 
When  her  young  infant  child 
Is  in  an  eagle's  claws  — 
And  is  not  this  the  cause 
Of  madness  ?  —  God  of  Song-, 
Thou  bearest  me  along 
Through  sights  I  scarce  can  bear: 
O  let  me,  let  me  share 
With  the  hot  lyre  and  thee, 
The  staid  Philosophy. 
Temper  my  lonely  hours, 
And  let  me  see  thy  bowers 
More  unalarm'd ! 

AT   TEIGNMOUTH 

Sent  as  part  of  a  letter  to  Haydon,  written 
from  Teignmouth,  March  21,  1818.  'I  have 
enjoyed  the  most  delightful  walks  these  three 
fine  days  beautiful  enough  to  make  me  content 
here  all  the  summer  could  I  stay.' 

HERE  all  the  summer  could  I  stay, 
For  there  's  Bishop's  teign 
And  King's  teign 

And  Coomb  at  the  clear  teign  head  — 
Where  close  by  the  stream 
You  may  have  your  cream 

All  spread  upon  barley  bread. 

There  's  arch  Brook 

And  there  's  larch  Brook 
Both  turning  many  a  mill ; 

And  cooling  the  drouth 

Of  the  salmon's  mouth 
And  fattening  his  silver  gill. 

There  is  Wild  wood, 

A  Mild  hood 
To  the  sheep  on  the  lea  o'  the  down, 

Where  the  golden  furze 

With  its  green,  thin  spurs, 
Doth  catch  at  the  maiden's  gown. 

There  is  Xewton  marsh 

With  its  spear  grass  harsh  — 
A  pleasant  summer  level 

Where  the  maidens  sweet 

Of  the  Market  Street, 
Do  meet  in  the  dusk  to  revel. 

There  's  the  Barton  rich 

With  dyke  and  ditch 
And  hedge  for  the  thrush  to  live  in  ; 

And  the  hollow  tree 

For  the  buzzing  bee, 
And  a  bank  for  the  wasp  to  hive  in. 


FAMILIAR   VERSES 


243 


And  O,  and  O 

The  daisies  blow 
And  the  primroses  are  waken'd, 

And  the  violets  white 

Sit  in  silver  plight, 
And  the  green  bud  's  as  long  as  the  spike  end. 

Then  who  would  go 

Into  dark  Soho, 
And  chatter  with  dack'd  hair'd  critics, 

When  he  can  stay 

For  the  new-mown  hay, 
And  startle  the  dappled  Prickets  ? 

THE    DEVON    MAID 

Immediately  after  the  preceding,  Keats 
adds :  '  I  know  not  if  this  rhyming  fit  has  done 
anything  —  it  will  be  safe  with  you  if  worthy 
to  put  among  my  Lyrics.  Here  's  some  dog- 
grel  for  you,'  and  these  four  stanzas  follow. 

WHERE  be  ye  going,  you  Devon  Maid  ? 

And  what  have  ye  there  in  the  Basket  ? 
Ye  tight  little  fairy  just  fresh  from  the  dairy, 

Will  ye  give  me  some  cream  if  I  ask  it  ? 

I  love  your  Meads,  and  I  love  your  flowers, 

And  I  love  your  junkets  mainly, 
But  'hind  the  door  I  love  kissing  more, 

0  look  not  so  disdainly. 

I  love  your  hills,  and  I  love  your  dales, 
And  I  love  your  flocks  a-bleating  — 

But  0,  on  the  heather  to  lie  together, 
With  both  our  hearts  a-beating  ! 

I  '11  put  your  Basket  all  safe  in  a  nook, 
Your  shawl  I  hang  up  on  the  willow, 

And  we  will  sigh  in  the  daisy's  eye 
And  kiss  on  a  grass  green  pillow. 

ACROSTIC  : 
GEORGIANA  AUGUSTA   KEATS 

This  is  dated  'Foot  of  Helvellyn,  June  27,' 
1818,  and  was  sent,  as  something  overlooked, 
to  his  brother  and  sister.  September  18,  1819. 
'  I  wrote  it  in  a  great  hurry  which  you  will 
see.  Indeed  I  would  not  copy  it  if  I  thought 
it  would  ever  be  seen  by  any  but  yourselves.' 

GIVE  me  your  patience,  sister,  while  I  frame 
Exact  in  capitals  your  golden  name  ; 
Or  sue  the  fair  Apollo  and  he  will 
Ronse  from  his  heavy  slumber  and  instill 


Great  love  in  me  for  thee  and  Poesy. 
Imagine  not  that  greatest  mastery 
And  kingdom  over  all  the  Realms  of  verse, 
Nears  more  to  heaven  in  aught,  than  when  we 

nurse 
And  surety  give  to  love  and  Brotherhood. 

Anthropophagi  in  Othello's  mood  ; 
Ulysses  storm'd  and  his  enchanted  belt 
Glow  with  the  Muse,  but  they  are  never  felt 
Unbosom'd  so  and  so  eternal  made, 
Such  tender  incense  in  their  laurel  shade 
To  all  the  regent  sisters  of  the  Nine 
As  this  poor  offering  to  you,  sister  mine. 

Kind  sister  !  ay,  this  third  name  says  you  are  ; 
Enchanted  has  it  been  the  Lord  knows  where  ; 
And  may  it  taste  to  you  like  good  old  wine, 
Take  you  to  real  happiness  and  give 
Sons,  daughters  and  a  home  like  honied  hive. 


MEG   MERRILIES 

Sent  in  a  letter  to  Fanny  Keats,  written  from 
Auchencairn,  July  2,  1818.  'We  are  in  the 
midst  of  Meg  Merrilies  country  of  whom  I  sup- 
pose you  have  heard.'  Fanny  Keats  was  a 
girl  of  fifteen  at  this  time. 

OLD  Meg  she  was  a  Gipsy, 

And  liv'd  upon  the  Moors : 
Her  bed  it  was  the  brown  heath  turf, 

And  her  house  was  out  of  doors. 

Her  apples  were  swart  blackberries, 

Her  currants  pods  o'  broom  ; 
Her  wine  was  dew  of  the  wild  white  rose, 

Her  book  a  churchyard  tomb. 

Her  Brothers  were  the  craggy  hills, 

Her  Sisters  larchen  trees  — 
Alone  with  her  great  family 

She  liv'd  as  she  did  please. 

No  breakfast  had  she  many  a  morn, 

No  dinner  many  a  noon, 
And  'stead  of  supper  she  would  stare 

Full  hard  against  the  Moon. 

But  every  morn  of  woodbine  fresh 

She  made  her  garlanding, 
And  every  night  the  dark  glen  Yew 

She  wove,  and  she  would  sing. 

And  with  her  fingers  old  and  brown 
She  plaited  Mats  o'  Rushes, 


244 


SUPPLEMENTARY   VERSE 


And  gave  them  to  the  Cottagers 
She  met  among  the  Bushes, 

Old  Meg  was  brave  as  Margaret  Queen 

And  tall  as  Amazon : 
An  old  red  blanket  cloak  she  wore  ; 

A  chip  hat  had  she  on. 
God  rest  her  aged  bones  somewhere  — 

She  died  full  long  agone  ! 


A   SONG   ABOUT    MYSELF 

'  I  have  so  many  interruptions,'  writes  Keats 
to  his  sister  Fanny  from  Kircudbright,  July  2, 
1818,  'that  I  cannot  manage  to  fill  a  Letter 
in  one  day  —  since  I  scribbled  the  song  [Meg 
Merrilies]  we  have  walked  through  a  beautiful 
country  to  Kircudbright  —  at  which  place  I 
will  write  you  a  song  about  myself.' 

THERE  was  a  naughty  Boy, 

A  naughty  boy  was  he, 

He  would  not  stop  at  home, 

He  could  not  quiet  be  — 

He  took 

In  his  Knapsack 

A  Book 

Full  of  vowels  ; 

And  a  shirt 

With  some  towels  — 

A  slight  cap 

For  night  cap  — 

A  hair  brush, 

Comb  ditto, 

New  Stockings, 

For  old  ones 

Would  split  0 ! 

This  Knapsack, 

Tight  at 's  back, 

He  rivetted  close 
And  follow'd  his  Nose 

To  the  North, 

To  the  North, 
And  follow'd  his  nose 

To  the  North. 

There  was  a  naughty  boy 

And  a  naughty  boy  was  he, 
For  nothing  would  he  do 
But  scribble  poetry  — 

He  took 

An  inkstand 

In  his  hand, 

And  a  Pen 

Big  as  ten 

In  the  other, 


And  away 

In  a  Pother 

He  ran 

To  the  mountains, 

And  fountains 

And  ghostes, 

And  Postes, 

And  witches, 

And  ditches, 

And  wrote 

In  his  coat, 

When  the  weather 

Was  cool, 

Fear  of  gout, 

And  without 

When  the  weather 

Was  Warm  — 

Och  the  charm 

When  we  choose 
To  follow  one's  nose 

To  the  north, 

To  the  north, 
To  follow  one's  nose 
To  the  north. 

There  was  a  naughty  boy 

And  a  naughty  boy  was  he, 
He  kept  little  fishes 
In  washing  tubs  three 

In  spite 

Of  the  might 

Of  the  Maid, 

Nor  afraid 

Of  his  Granny  —  good  — 

He  often  would, 

Hurly  burly, 

Get  up  early, 

And  go 

By  hook  or  crook 

To  the  brook, 

And  bring  home 

Miller's  thumb, 

Tittlebat 

Not  over  fat, 

Minnows  small 

As  the  stall 

Of  a  glove, 

Not  above 

The  size 

Of  a  nice 

Little  Baby's 

Little  fingers  — 

O,  he  made, 

'T  was  his  trade, 
Of  Fish  a  pretty  Kettle 

A  Kettle  — 

A  Kettle 


FAMILIAR   VERSES 


245 


Of  Fish,  a  pretty  Kettle, 
A  Kettle ! 

There  was  a  naughty  Boy, 

And  a  naughty  Boy  was  he. 
He  ran  away  to  Scotland 
The  people  for  to  see  — 

Then  he  found 

That  the  ground 

Was  as  hard, 

That  a  yard 

Was  as  long, 

That  a  song 

Was  as  merry, 

That  a  cherry 

Was  as  red  — 

That  lead 

Was  as  weighty, 

That  fourscore 

Was  as  eighty, 

That  a  door 

Was  as  wooden 

As  in  England  — 
So  he  stood  in  his  shoes  • 

And  he  wonder'd, 

He  wonder'd, 
He  stood  in  his  shoes 

And  he  wonder'd. 


TO  THOMAS   KEATS 
BELANTREE  (for  Ballantrae)  July  10  [1818.] 

AH  !  ken  ye  what  I  met  the  day 

Out  oure  the  Mountains 
A  coming  down  by  craggies  gray 

An  mossie  fountains  — 
Ah  goud-hair'd  Marie  yeve  I  pray 

Ane  minute's  guessing  — 
For  that  I  met  upon  the  way 

Is  past  expressing. 
As  I  stood  where  a  rocky  brig 

A  torrent  crosses 
I  spied  upon  a  misty  rig 

A  troup  o'  Horses  — 
And  as  they  trotted  down  the  glen 

I  sped  to  meet  them 
To  see  if  I  might  know  the  Men 

To  stop  and  greet  them. 
First  Willie  on  his  sleek  mare  came 

At  canting  gallop 
His  long  hair  rustled  like  a  flame 

On  board  a  shallop, 
Then  came  his  brother  Rab  and  then 

Young  Peggy's  Mither 
And  Peggy  too  —  adown  the  glen 

They  went  togither  — 


I  saw  her  wrappit  in  her  hood 

Frae  wind  and  raining  — 
Her  cheek  was  flush  wi'  timid  blood 

Twixt  growth  and  waning  — 
She  turn'd  her  dazed  eyes  full  oft 

For  there  her  Brithers 
Came  riding  with  her  Bridegroom  soft 

And  mony  ithers. 
Young  Tarn  came  up  and  eyed  me  quick 

With  reddened  cheek  — 
Braw  Tom  was  daff ed  like  a  chick  — 

He  couldna  speak  — 
Ah,  Marie,  they  are  all  gane  hame 

Through  blustering  weather 
An'  every  heart  is  full  on  flame 

An'  light  as  feather. 
Ah  !  Marie,  they  are  all  gone  hame 

Frae  happy  wadding, 
Whilst  I  —  Ah  is  it  not  a  shame  ? 

Sad  tears  am  shedding. 

THE   GADFLY 

Inclosed  in  a  letter  to  Tom  Keats,  July  IT 
1818. 

ALL,  gentle  folks  who  owe  a  grudge 

To  any  living  thing 
Open  your  ears  and  stay  your  t(r)udge 
Whilst  I  in  dudgeon  sing. 

The  Gadfly  he  hath  stung  me  sore  — 

0  may  he  ne'er  sting  you  ! 
But  we  have  many  a  horrid  bore,  — 

He  may  sting  black  and  blue. 

Has  any  here  an  old  gray  Mare 
With  three  legs  all  her  store, 

O  put  it  to  her  Buttocks  bare 
And  straight  she  '11  run  on  four. 

Has  any  here  a  Lawyer  suit 

Of  1743, 
Take  Lawyer's  nose  and  put  it  to  't 

And  you  the  end  will  see. 

Is  there  a  Man  in  Parliament 
Dum(b)founder'd  in  his  speech, 

0  let  his  neighbour  make  a  rent 
And  put  one  in  his  breech. 

O  Lowther  how  much  better  thou 

Hadst  figur'd  t'  other  day 
When  to  the  folks  thou  mad'st  a  bow 

And  hadst  no  more  to  say. 

If  lucky  Gadfly  had  but  ta'en 
His  seat  . 


246 


SUPPLEMENTARY   VERSE 


And  put  thee  to  a  little  pain 
To  save  thee  from  a  worse. 

Better  than  Southey  it  had  been, 

Better  than  Mr.  D 

Better  than  Wordsworth,  too,  I  ween, 

Better  than  Mr.  V . 

Forgive  me,  pray,  good  people  all, 

For  deviating  so  — 
In  spirit  sure  I  had  a  call  — 

And  now  I  on  will  go. 

Has  any  here  a  daughter  fair 

Too  fond  of  reading  novels, 
Too  apt  to  fall  in  love  with  care 

And  charming  Mister  Lovels, 

0  put  a  Gadfly  to  that  thing 
She  keeps  so  white  and  pert  — 

1  mean  the  finger  for  the  ring, 
And  it  will  breed  a  wort. 

Has  any  here  a  pious  spouse 

Who  seven  times  a  day 
Scolds  as  King  David  pray'd,  to  chouse 

And  have  her  holy  way  — 

0  let  a  Gadfly's  little  sting 
Persuade  her  sacred  tongue 

That  noises  are  a  common  thing, 
But  that  her  bell  has  rung. 

And  as  this  is  the  summum  bo- 
num  of  all  conquering, 

1  leave  '  withouten  wordes  mo ' 
The  Gadfly's  little  sting. 


•ON    HEARING  THE    BAG-PIPE   AND   SEEING 
'THE  STRANGER'  PLAYED  AT  INVERARY 

'On  entering-  Inverary,'  Keats  writes  to  his 
brother  Tom,  July  18,  1818, '  we  saw  a  Play 
Bill.  Brown  was  knocked  up  from  new  shoes 
—  so  I  went  to  the  Barn  alone  where  I  saw  the 
Stranger  accompanied  by  a  Bag-pipe.  There 
they  went  on  about  interesting  creators  and 
human  nater  till  the  Curtain  fell  and  then 
came  the  Bag-pipe.  When  Mrs.  Haller  fainted 
down  went  the  Curtain  and  out  came  the  Bag- 
pipe —  at  the  heartrending,  shoemending  recon- 
ciliation the  Piper  blew  amain.  I  never  read 
or  saw  this  play  before  ;  not  the  Bag-pipe  nor 
the  wretched  players  themselves  were  little  in 


comparison  with  it  —  thank  heaven  it  has  been 
scoffed  at  lately  almost  to  a  fashion.' 

OF  late  two  dainties  were  before  me  plac'd 
Sweet,  holy,  pure,  sacred  and  innocent, 
From  the  ninth  sphere  to  me  benignly  sent 
That  Gods    might    know  my  own  particular 

taste : 
First  the  soft  Bag-pipe  mourn' d  with  zealous 

haste, 

The  Stranger  next  with  head  on  bosom  bent 
Sigh'd ;   rueful  again   the  piteous  Bag-pipe 

went, 

Again  the  Stranger  sighings  fresh  did  waste. 
0  Bag-pipe,  thou  didst  steal  my  heart  away  — 
0  Stranger,  thou  my  nerves  from  Pipe  didst 

charm  — 
0  Bag-pipe  thou  didst  re-assert  thy  sway  — 

Again  thou,  Stranger,  gav'st  me  fresh  alarm  — 
Alas  !  I  could  not  choose.  Ah  !  my  poor  heart 
Mum  chance  art  thou  with  both  oblig'd  to  part. 


LINES    WRITTEN    IN    THE    HIGHLANDS   AFTER 
A  VISIT  TO   BURNS'S   COUNTRY 

In   a  letter  to   Benjamin  Bailey  from  the 
Island  of  Mull,  July  22,  1818. 

THERE  is  a  charm  in  footing  slow  across  a  silent 

plain, 
Where  patriot  battle  has  been  fought,  where 

glory  had  the  gain  ; 
There  is  a  pleasure  on  the  heath  where  Druids 

old  have  been, 
Where  mantles  gray  have  rustled  by  and  swept 

the  nettles  green  ; 
There  is  Joy  in  every  spot  made  known  by 

times  of  old, 
New  to  the  feet,  although  each  tale  a  hundred 

times  be  told ; 
There  is  a  deeper  Joy  than  all,  more  solemn  in 

the  heart, 
More  parching  to  the  tongue  than  all,  of  more 

divine  a  smart, 
When  weary  steps  forget  themselves  upon  a 

pleasant  turf, 
Upon  hot  sand,  or  flinty  road,  or  sea-shore  iron 

scurf, 
Toward  the  Castle  or  the  Cot,  where  long  ago 

was  born 
One  who  was  great  through  mortal  days,  and 

died  of  fame  unshorn. 
Light  heather-bells  may  tremble  then,  but  they 

are  far  away ; 
Wood-lark  may  sing  from  sandy  fern,  —  the 

Sun  may  hear  his  Lay  ; 


FAMILIAR   VERSES 


247 


Runnels  may  kiss  the  grass  on  shelves  and  shal- 
lows clear, 

But  their  low  voices  are  not  heard,  though 
come  on  travels  drear  ; 

Blood-red  the  sun  may  set  behind  black  moun- 
tain peaks  ; 

Blue  tides  may  sluice  and  drench  their  time  in 
Caves  and  weedy  creeks  ; 

Eagles  may  seem  to  sleep  wing-wide  upon  the 
Air; 

Ring-doves  may  fly  convuls'd  across  to  some 
high-cedar'd  lair  ; 

But  the  forgotten  eye  is  still  fast  lidded  to  the 
ground, 

As  Palmer's,  that  with  weariness,  mid-desert 
shrine  hath  found. 

At  such  a  time  the  soul 's  a  child,  in  child- 
hood is  the  brain ; 

Forgotten  is  the  worldly  heart  —  alone,  it  beats 
in  vain.  — 

Aye,  if  a  Madman  could  have  leave  to  pass  a 
healthful  day 

To  tell  his  forehead's  swoon  and  faint  when 
first  began  decay, 

He  might  make  tremble  many  a  one  whose  spirit 
had  gone  forth 

To  find  a  Bard's  low  cradle-place  about  the 
silent  North. 

Scanty  the  hour  and  few  the  steps  beyond  the 
bourn  of  Care, 

Beyond  the  sweet  and  bitter  world,  —  beyond 
it  unaware  ! 

Scanty  the  hour  and  few  the  steps,  because  a 
longer  stay 

Would  bar  return,  and  make  a  man  forget  his 
mortal  way : 

O  horrible !  to  lose  the  sight  of  well  remem- 
ber'd  face, 

Of  Brother's  eyes,  of  Sister's  brow  —  constant 
to  every  place ; 

Filling  the  Air,  as  on  we  move,  with  Portrai- 
ture intense ; 

More  warm  than  those  heroic  tints  that  pain  a 
Painter's  sense, 

When  shapes  of  old  come  striding  by,  and  vis- 
ages of  old, 

Locks  shining  black,  hair  scanty  gray,  and  pas- 
sions manifold. 

No,  no,  that  horror  cannot  be,  for  at  the  cable's 
length 

Man  feels  the  gentle  anchor  pull  and  gladdens 
in  its  strength  :  — 

One  hour,  half-idiot,  he  stands  by  mossy  water- 
fall, 

But  in  the  very  next  he  reads  his  soul's  Memo- 
rial :  — 


He  reads  it  on  the  mountain's  height,  where 
chance  he  may  sit  down 

Upon  rough  marble  diadem  —  that  hill's  eter- 
nal Crown. 

Yet  be  his  Anchor  e'er  so  fast,  room  is  there 
for  a  prayer 

That  man  may  never  lose  his  Mind  on  Moun- 
tains black  and  bare ; 

That  he  may  stray  league  after  league  some 
great  birthplace  to  find 

And  keep  his  vision  clear  from  speck,  his  in 
ward  sight  unbliud. 


MRS.   CAMERON    AND   BEN    NEVIS 

In  his  letter  to  Tom  Keats,  August  3,  1818, 
which  contains  the  sonnet  written  on  Ben  Ne- 
vis, Keats  concludes  a  lively  account  of  the 
ascent  they  made  with  this  bit  of  nonsense  :  — 

After  all  there  was  one  Mrs.  Cameron  of  50 
years  of  age  and  the  fattest  woman  in  all  In- 
verness-shire who  got  up  this  Mountain  some 
few  years  ago  —  true  she  had  her  servants  — 
but  then  she  had  herself.  She  ought  to  have 
hired  Sisyphus,  —  "  Up  the  high  hill  he  heaves 
a  huge  round  —  Mrs.  Cameron."  'T  is  said  a 
little  conversation  took  place  between  the 
mountain  and  the  Lady.  After  taking  a  glass 
of  Whisky  as  she  was  tolerably  seated  at  ease 
she  thus  began  — 

MRS.    C. 

UPON  my  life  Sir  Nevis  I  am  piqued 
That  I  have  so  far  panted  tugg'd  and  reek'd 
To  do  an  honor  to  your  old  bald  pate 
And  now  am  sitting  on  you  just  to  bait, 
Without  your  paying  me  one  compliment. 
Alas,  't  is  so  with  all,  when  our  intent 
Is  plain,  and  in  the  eye  of  all  Mankind 
We  fair,  ones  show  a  preference,  too  blind  ! 
You  Gentle  man  immediately  turn  tail  — 
O  let  me  then  my  hapless  fate  bewail ! 
Ungrateful  Baldpate  have  I  not  disdain'd 
The  pleasant  Valleys  —  have  I  not  madbrain'd 
Deserted  all  my  Pickles  and  preserves 
My  China  closet  too  —  with  wretched  Nerves 
To  boot  —  say,  wretched  ingrate,  have  I  not 
Left  my  soft  cushion  chair  and  caudle  pot  ? 
'Tis  true  I   had    no   corns  —  no!    thank    the 

fates 

My  Shoemaker  was  always  Mr.  Bates. 
And  if  not  Mr.  Bates  why  I  'm  not  old  ! 
Still  dumb  ungrateful  Nevis  —  still  so  cold  ! 


248 


SUPPLEMENTARY   VERSE 


Here  the  Lady  took  some  more  whisky  and 
was  putting  even  more  to  her  lips  when  she 
dashed  it  to  the  Ground,  for  the  Mountain  be- 
gan to  grumble  —  which  continued  for  a  few 
minutes  before  he  thus  began  — 

BEN    NEVIS. 

What  whining  bit  of  tongue  and  Mouth  thus 

dares 

Disturb  my  slumber  of  a  thousand  years  ? 
Even  so  long  my  sleep  has  been  secure  — 
And  to  be  so  awak'd  I  '11  not  endure. 
Oh  pain  —  for  since  the  Eagle's  earliest  scream 
I  've  had  a  damn'd  confounded  ugly  dream, 
A  Nightmare  sure.     What !    Madam,  was  it 

you? 

It  cannot  be  !    My  old  eyes  are  not  true  ! 
Red-Crag,  my  Spectacles  !    Now  let  me  see  ! 
Good  Heavens  !    Lady,  how  the  gemini 
Did  you  get  here  ?    O,  I  shall  split  my  sides  ! 
I  shall  earthquake  — 

MRS.    C. 

Sweet  Nevis  do  not  quake,  for  though  I  love 
Your  honest  Countenance  all  things  above, 
Truly  I  should  not  like  to  be  convey'd 
So  far  into  your  Bosom  —  gentle  Maid 
Loves  not  too  rough  a  treatment,  gentle  Sir  — 
Pray  thee  be  calm  and  do  not  quake  nor  stir 
No,  not  a  Stone,  or  I  shall  go  in  fits  — 

BEN    NEVIS. 

I  must  —  I  shall —  I  meet  not  such  tit  bits  — 
I  meet  not  such  sweet  creatures  every  day  — 
By  my  old  nightcap  night  and  day 
I  must  have  one  sweet  Buss  —  I  must  and  shall ! 
Red  Crag !  —  What !  Madam,  can  you  then  re- 
pent 

Of  all  the  toil  and  vigour  you  have  spent 
To  see  Ben  Nevis  and  to  touch  his  nose  ? 
Red  Crag  I  say !     0  I  must  have  them  close  ! 
Red  Crag,  there  lies  beneath  my  farthest  toe 
A  vein  of  Sulphur  —  go,  dear  Red  Crag,  go  — 
And  rub  your  flinty  back  against  it  —  budge  ! 
Dear  Madam,  I  must  kiss  you,  faith  I  must ! 
I  must  embrace  you  with  my  dearest  gust ! 
Block-head,    d'ye    hear !— Block-head,    I'll 

make  her  feel. 

There  lies  beneath  my  east  leg's  northern  heel 
A  cave  of  young  earth    dragons ;  —  well  my 

boy 

Go  thither  quick  and  so  complete  my  joy. 
Take  you  a  bundle  of  the  largest  pines, 
And  when  the  sun  on  fiercest  Phosphor  shines, 
Fire  them  and  ram  them  in  the  Dragon's  nest, 
Then  will  the  dragons  fry  and  fizz  their  best 


Until  ten  thousand  now  no  bigger  than 
Poor  Alligators  —  poor  things  of  one  span  — 
Will  each  one  swell  to  twice  ten  times  the 

size 

Of  northern  whale  —  then  for  the  tender  prize  — 
The  moment  then  —  for  then  will  Red  Crag  rub 
His  flinty  back  —  and  I  shall  kiss  and  snub 
And  press  my  dainty  morsel  to  my  breast. 
Block-head  make  haste ! 

0  Muses,  weep  the  rest  — 
The  Lady  fainted  and  he  thought  her  dead  ; 
So  pulled  the  clouds  again  about  his  head 
And  went  to  sleep  again  ;  soon  she  was  rous'd 
By  her  affrighted  servants  —  next  day,  hous'd 
Safe  on  the  lowly  ground  she  bless' d  her  fate 
That  fainting  fit  was  not  delayed  too  late. 

But  what  surprised  me  above  all  is  how 
the  lady  got  down  again.  I  felt  it  horribly. 
'T  was  the  most  vile  descent  —  shook  me  all 
to  pieces. 


SHARING  EVE'S   APPLE 

Printed  by  Mr.  Forman  and  assigned  to  1818. 
Mr.  Forman  does  not  give  his  authority,  save 
to  say  that  the  verses  have  been  handed  about 
in  manuscript. 

0  BLUSH  not  so  !    O  blush  not  so ! 

Or  I  shall  think  you  knowing  ; 
And  if  you  smile  the  blushing  while, 

Then  maidenheads  are  going. 

There 's  a  blush  for  won't,  and  a  blush  for 

shan't, 

And  a  blush  for  having  done  it : 
There  's  a  blush  for  thought  and  a  blush  for 

nought, 
And  a  blush  for  just  begun  it. 

O  sigh  not  so  !    O  sigh  not  so  ! 

For  it  sounds  of  Eve's  sweet  pippin ; 
By  these  loosen'd  lips  you  have  tasted  the  pips 

And  fought  in  an  amorous  nipping. 

Will  you  play  once  more  at  nice-cut-core, 
For  it  only  will  last  our  youth  out, 

And  we  have  the  prime  of  the  kissing  time, 
We  have  not  one  sweet  tooth  out. 

There  's  a  sigh  for  yes,  and  a  sigh  for  no, 

And  a  sigh  for  I  can't  bear  it ! 
0  what  can  be  done,  shall  we  stay  or  run  ? 

O  cut  the  sweet  apple  and  share  it ! 


FAMILIAR  VERSES 


249 


A   PROPHECY  : 
TO   GEORGE  KEATS   IN   AMERICA 

In  a  letter  to  his  brother  and  his  wife,  Octo- 
ber 24,  1818,  Keats  says  :  k  If  I  had  a  prayer 
to  make  for  any  great  good,  next  to  Tom's  re- 
covery, it  should  be  that  one  of  your  children 
should  be  the  first  American  Poet.  I  have  a 
great  mind  to  make  a  prophecy,  and  they  say 
prophecies  work  on  their  own  fulfilment.' 

'T  is  the  witching  time  of  night, 

Orbed  is  the  moon  and  bright, 

And  the  Stars  they  glisten,  glisten, 

Seeming  with  bright  eyes  to  listen. 

For  what  listen  they  ? 

For  a  song  and  for  a  charm, 

See  they  glisten  in  alarm, 

And  the  Moon  is  waxing  warm 

To  hear  what  I  shall  say. 

Moon  !  keep  wide  thy  golden  ears  — 

Hearken,  Stars !  and  hearken,  Spheres !  — 

Hearken,  thou  eternal  Sky  ! 

I  sing  an  infant's  Lullaby, 

O  pretty  lullaby ! 

Listen,  listen,  listen,  listen, 

Glisten,  glisten,  glisten,  glisten, 

And  hear  my  Lullaby  I 

Though  the  Rushes,  that  will  make 

Its  cradle,  still  are  in  the  lake  — 

Though  the  linen  that  will  be 

Its  swathe,  is  on  the  cotton  tree  — 

Though  the  woollen  that  will  keep 

It  warm,  is  on  the  silly  sheep  — 

Listen,  Starlight,  listen,  listen, 

Glisten,  glisten,  glisten,  glisten, 

And  hear  my  lullaby  ! 

Child,  I  see  thee  !    Child,  I  've  found  thee 

Midst  of  the  quiet  all  around  thee ! 

Child,  I  see  thee  !    Child,  I  spy  thee ! 

And  thy  mother  sweet  is  nigh  thee ! 

Child,  I  know  thee  !     Child  no  more, 

But  a  Poet  evermore  ! 

See,  see,  the  Lyre,  the  Lyre, 

In  a  flame  of  fire, 

Upon  the  little  cradle's  top 

Flaring,  flaring,  flaring, 

Past  the  eyesight's  bearing. 

Awake  it  from  its  sleep, 

And  see  if  it  can  keep 

Its  eyes  upon  the  blaze  — 

Amaze,  amaze  ! 

It  stares,  it  stares,  it  stares, 

It  dares  what  no  one  dares  ! 

It  lifts  its  little  hand  into  the  flame 


Unharm'd,  and  on  the  strings 
Paddles  a  little  tune,  and  sings, 
With  dumb  endeavour  sweetly  — 
Bard  art  thou  completely ! 

Little  child 

O'  th'  western  wild, 
Bard  art  thou  completely  ! 
Sweetly  with  dumb  endeavour, 
A  Poet  now  or  never, 

Little  child 

O'  th'  western  wild, 
A  Poet  now  or  never  ! 


A   LITTLE  EXTEMPORE 

Inclosed  in  a  letter  to  George  and  Georgi- 
ana  Keats,  written  April  15,  1819. 

WHEN  they  were  come  into  the  Faery's  Court 

They  rang —  no  one  at  home  —  all  gone  to  sport 

And  dance  and  kiss  and  love  as  faeries  do 

For  Faries  be  as  humans  lovers  true. 

Amid  the  woods  they  were  so  lone  and  wild, 

Where  even  the  Robin  feels  himself  exil'd, 

And  where  the  very  brooks,  as  if  afraid, 

Hurry  along  to  some  less  magic  shade. 

'  No  one  at  home ! '  the  fretful  Princess  cry'd ; 

'  And  all  for  nothing  such  a  dreary  ride, 

And  all  for  nothing  my  new  diamond  cross  ; 

No  one  to  see  my  Persian  feathers  toss, 

No  one  to  see  my  Ape,  my  Dwarf,  my  Fool, 

Or  how  I  pace  my  Otaheitan  mule. 

Ape,  Dwarf,  and  Fool,  why  stand  you  gaping 

there, 

Burst  the  door  open,  quick  —  or  I  declare 
I  '11  switch  you  soundly  and  in  pieces  tear.' 
The  Dwarf  began  to  tremble,  and  the  Ape 
Star'd  at  the  Fool,  the  Fool  was  all  agape, 
The  Princess  grasp'd  her  switch,  but  just  in 

time 

The  dwarf  with  piteous  face  began  to  rhyme. 
'  0  mighty  Princess,  did  you  ne'er  hear  tell 
What  your  poor  servants  know  but  too  too 

well? 

Know  you  the  three  great  crimes  in  Faeryland  ? 
The  first,  alas  !  poor  Dwarf,  I  understand, 
I  made  a  whipstock  of  a  faery's  wand ; 
The  next  is  snoring  in  their  company  ; 
The  next,  the  last,  the  direst  of  the  three, 
Is  making  free  when  they  are  not  at  home. 
I  was  a  Prince  —  a  baby  prince  —  my  doom, 
You  see,  I  made  a  whipstock  of  a  wand, 
My  top  has  henceforth  slept  in  faery  land. 
He  was  a  Prince,  the  Fool,  a  grown-up  Prince, 
But  he  has  never  been  a  King's  son  since 
He  fell  a  snoring  at  a  faery  Ball. 


2S0 


SUPPLEMENTARY   VERSE 


Yon  poor  Ape  was  a  Prince,  and  he  poor  thing 
Picklock'd  a  faery's  boudoir  —  now  no  king 
But  ape  —  so  pray  your  highness  stay  awhile, 
'T  is  sooth  indeed,  we  know  it  to  our  sorrow  — 
Persist  and  you  may  be  an  ape  to-morrow.' 
While  the  Dwarf  spake,  the  Princess,  all  for 

spite, 

Peel'd  the  brown  hazel  twig  to  lily  white, 
Clench'd  her  small  teeth,  and   held  her  lips 

apart, 

Try'd  to  look  unconcern'd  with  beating  heart. 
They  saw  her  highness  had  made  up  her  mind, 
A-quavering  like  the  reeds  before  the  wind  — 
And  they  had  had  it,  but  0  happy  chance  ! 
The  Ape  for  very  fear  began  to  dance 
And  grinn'd  as  all  his  ugliness  did  ache  — 
She  staid  her  vixen  fingers  for  his  sake, 
He  was  so  very  ugly :  then  she  took 
Her  pocket-mirror  and  began  to  look 
First  at  herself  and  then  at  him,  and  then 
She  srnil'd  at  her  own  beauteous  face  again. 
Yet  for  all  this  —  for  all  her  pretty  face  — 
She  took  it  in  her  head  to  see  the  place. 
Women  gain  little  from  experience 
Either  in  Lovers,  husbands,  or  expense. 
The  more  their  beauty  the  more  fortune  too  — 
Beauty  before  the  wide  world  never  knew  — 
So  each  fair  reasons  —  tho'  it  oft  miscarries. 
She  thought  her  pretty  face  would  please  the 

fairies. 

'  My  darling  Ape,  I  wont  whip  you  to-day, 
Give  me  the  Picklock  sirrah  and  go  play.' 
They  all  three  wept  but  counsel  was  as  vain 
As  crying  cup  biddy  to  drops  of  rain. 
Yet  lingering  by  did  the  sad  Ape  forth  draw 
The  Picklock  from  the  Pocket  in  his  Jaw. 
The  Princess  took  it,  and  dismounting  straight 
Tripp'd  in  blue  silver' d  slippers  to  the  gate 
And  touch' d  the  wards,  the  Door  full  courteous 
Opened  — she  enter'd  with  her  servants  three. 
Again  it  clos'd  and  there  was  nothing  seen 
But  the  Mule  grazing  on  the  herbage  green. 
End  of  Canto  XII. 

CANTO   THE   XIII 

The  Mule  no  sooner  saw  himself  alone 

Than  he  prick'd  up  bis  Ears  —  and  said  '  well 

done; 

At  least  unhappy  Prince  I  may  be  free  — 
No  more  a  Princess  shall  side-saddle  me. 

0  King  of  Otaheite  —  tho'  a  Mule, 

"Aye,  every  inch  a  King"  —  tho'  "Fortune's 

Fool," 
Well  done  —  for  by  what  Mr.  Dwarfy  said 

1  would  not  give  a  sixpence  for  her  head.' 
Even  as  he  spake  he  trotted  in  high  glee 
To  the  knotty  side  of  an  old  Pollard  tree, 


And  rubb'd  his  sides  against  the  mossed  bark 
Till  his  Girths  burst  and  left  him  naked  stark 
Except  his  Bridle  —  how  get  rid  of  that 
Buckled  and  tied  with  many  a  twist  and  plait. 
At  last  it  struck  him  to  pretend  to  sleep, 
And  then  the  thievish  Monkeys  down  would 

creep 

And  filch  the  unpleasant  trammels  quite  away. 
No  sooner  thought  of  than  adown  he  lay, 
Shamm'd  a  good  snore  —  the  Monkey-men  de- 
scended 

And  whom  they  thought  to  injure  they  be- 
friended. 

They  hung  his  Bridle  on  a  topmost  bough 
And  off  he  went  run,  trot,  or  anyhow  — 


SPENSERIAN     STANZAS     ON     CHARLES     ARMI- 
TAGE   BROWN 

Inclosed  in  a  letter  to  George  and  Georgi- 
ana  Keats,  April  16  or  17,  1819 :  '  Brown  this 
morning-  is  writing  some  Spenserian  stanzas 
against  Mrs.,  Miss  Brawne  and  me  ;  so  I  shall 
amuse  myself  with  him  a  little :  in  the  manner 
of  Spenser.' 

HE  is  to  weet  a  melancholy  Carle : 
Thin  in  the  waist,  with  bushy  head  of  hair, 
As  hath  the  seeded  thistle  when  in  parle 
It  holds  the  Zephyr,  ere  it  sendeth  fair 
Its  light  balloons  into  the  summer  air ; 
There  to  his  beard  had  not  begun  to  bloom, 
No  brush  had    touch' d    his    chin,   or  razor 

sheer ; 
No  care  had  touched  his  cheek  with  mortal 

doom, 

But  new  he  was,  and  bright,  as  scarf  from  Per- 
sian loom. 

Ne  cared  he  for  wine,  or  half-and-half ; 
Ne  cared  he  for  fish,  or  flesh,  or  fowl ; 
And  sauces  held  he  worthless  as  the  chaff  ; 
He  's  deigned  the  swineherd  at  the  wassail 

bowl; 

Ne  with  lewd  ribbalds  sat  he  cheek  by  jowl ; 
Ne  with  sly  Lemans  in  the  scorner's  chair  ; 
But  after  water-brooks  this  Pilgrim's  soul 
Panted,  and  all  his  food  was  woodland  air  ; 
Though  he  would  oft-times  feast  on  gilliflowers 

rare. 

The  slang  of  cities  in  no  wise  he  knew  ; 
Tipping  the  wink  to  him  was  heathen  Greek ; 
He  sipp'd  no  '  olden  Tom,'  or  '  ruin  blue,' 
Or  Nantz,  or  cherry-brandy,  drunk  full  meek 


FAMILIAR   VERSES 


25' 


By  many  a  Damsel    hoarse,   and  rouge   of 

cheek; 
Nor   did    he  know  each   aged  Watchman's 

beat, 

Nor  in  obscured  purlieus  would  he  seek 
For  curled  Jewesses,  with  ankles  neat, 
Who,  as  they  walk  abroad,  make  tinkling  with 

their  feet. 


'  TWO   OR   THREE   POSIES  ' 

At  the  close  of  a  letter,  April  17,  1819,  to 
his  sister  Fanny,  Keats  writes  :  '  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Dilke  are  coming  to  dine  with  us  to-day  [at 
Wentworth  Place].  They  will  enjoy  the 
country  after  Westminster.  0  there  is  nothing 
like  fine  weather,  and  health,  and  Books,  and  a 
fine  country,  and  a  contented  Mind,  and  dili- 
gent habit  of  reading  and  thinking,  and  an 
amulet  against  the  ennui  —  and,  please  hea- 
ven, a  little  claret  wine  cool  out  of  a  cellar  a 
mile  deep  —  with  a  few  or  a  good  many  ratafia 
cakes  —  a  rocky  basin  to  bathe  in,  a  strawberry 
bed  to  say  your  prayers  to  Flora  in,  a  pad  nag 
to  go  you  ten  miles  or  so ;  two  or  three  sensi- 
ble people  to  chat  with  ;  two  or  three  spiteful 
folks  to  spar  with  ;  two  or  three  odd  fishes  to 
laugh  at  and  two  or  three  numskulls  to  argue 
with  —  instead  of  using  dumb  bells  on  a  rainy 
day.' 

Two  or  three  Posies 

With  two  or  three  simples  — 

Two  or  three  Noses 

With  two  or  three  pimples  — 

Two  or  three  wise  men 

And  two  or  three  ninny's  — 

Two  or  three  purses 

And  two  or  three  guineas  — 

Two  or  three  raps 

At  two  or  three  doors  — 

Two  or  three  naps 

Of  two  or  three  haurs  — 

Two  or  three  Cats 

And  two  or  three  mice  — 

Two  or  three  sprats 

At  a  very  great  price  — 

Two  or  three  sandies 

And  two  or  three  tabbies  — 

Two  or  three  dandies 

And  two  Mrs.  mum! 

Two  or  three  Smiles 

And  two  or  three  frowns  — 

Two  or  three  Miles 

To  two  or  three  towns  — 


Two  or  three  pegs 
For  two  or  three  bonnets  — 
Two  or  three  dove  eggs 
To  hatch  into  sonnets  — 


A    PARTY   OF   LOVERS 

'  Somewhere  in  the  Spectator  is  related  an 
account  of  a  man  inviting  a  party  of  stutterers 
and  squinters  to  his  table.  It  would  please  me 
more  to  scrape  together  a  party  of  lovers  — 
not  to  dinner  but  to  tea.  There  would  be  no 
fighting  as  among  knights  of  old.'  Keats  to 
George  and  Georgiana  Keats,  September  17, 
1819.  The  play  on  names  seems  to  indicate 
some  trifling  reference  to  Keats's  publishers  of 
Taylor  and  Hessey. 

PENSIVE  they  sit,  and  roll  their  languid  eyes, 
Nibble  their  toast,  and  cool  their  tea  with  sighs, 
Or  else  forget  the  purpose  of  the  night, 
Forget  their  tea  —  forget  their  appetite. 
See  with  cross'd  arms  they  sit  —  ah  !   happy 

crew, 

The  fire  is  going  out  and  no  one  rings 
For  coals,  and  therefore  no  coals  Betty  brings. 
A  fly  is  in  the  milk-pot  —  must  he  die 

By  a  humane  society  ? 
No,  no  ;  there  Mr.  Werter  takes  his  spoon, 
Inserts  it,  dips  the  handle,  and  lo !  soon 
The  little  straggler,  sav'd  from  perils  dark, 
Across  the  teaboard  draws  a  long  wet  mark. 

Arise  !  take  snuffers  by  the  handle, 
There  's  a  large  cauliflower  in  each  candle. 
A  winding-sheet,  ah  me !    I  must  away 
To  No.  7,  just  beyond  the  circus  gay. 
'  Alas,  my  friend !  your  coat  sits  very  well ; 
Where  may  your  Taylor  live ?  '    'I  may  not 
tell. 

0  pardon  me  —  I'm  absent  now  and  then. 
Where  might  my  Taylor  live  ?    I  say  again 

1  cannot  tell,  let  me  no  more  be  teaz'd  — 

He    lives    in  Wapping,   might  live  where   he 
pleas'd.' 


TO   GEORGE   KEATS 
WRITTEN    IN    SICKNESS 

This  is  from  a  transcript  by  George  Keats, 
and  dated  1819 ;  but  Keats's  letters  do  not  dis- 
close any  sickness  during  that  year  which 
would  be  likely  to  call  forth  the  lines,  and  the 
date  is  probably  1820,  if  indeed  we  are  author- 


252 


SUPPLEMENTARY    VERSE 


ized  to  refer  this  poem  to  John  Keats.  It  is 
not  impossible  that  it  was  written  by  Tom 
Keats  in  1818. 

BROTHER  belov'd  if  health  shall  smile  again, 
Upon  this  wasted  form  and  f ever'd  cheek : 
If  e'er  returning  vigour  bid  these  weak 

And  languid  limbs  their  gladsome  strength  re- 
gain, 

Well  may  thy  brow  the  placid  glow  retain 
Of  sweet  content  and  thy  pleas  'd  eye  may 


The  conscious  self  applause,  but  should  I  seek 
To  utter  what  this  heart  can  feel,  —  Ah  !  vain 
Were  the  attempt  I    Yet  kindest  friends  while 
o'er 

My  couch  ye  bend,  and  watch  with  tenderness 
The  being  whom  your  cares  could  e'en  restore, 

From  the  cold  grasp  of  Death,  say  can  you 


The  feelings  which  these  lips  can  ne'er  ex- 
press ? 
Feelings,  deep  fix'd  in  grateful  memory's  store. 


ON   OXFORD 

Charles  Armitage  Brown,  writing  to  Henry 
Snook  from  Hampstead  24  March,  1820,  says : 
*  Tom  shall  have  one  of  his  [Keats's]  bits  of 
comic  verses,  —  I  met  with  them  only  yester- 
day, but  they  have  been  written  long  ago,  — 
it  is  a  song  on  the  City  of  Oxford.' 

The  verses  were  also  copied  by  Keats  in  a 
letter  to  Reynolds,  given  below  on  p.  269,  as  a 
satirical  criticism  of  Wordsworth. 

THE  Gothic  looks  solemn, 

The  plain  Doric  column 
Supports  an  old  Bishop  and  Crozier  ; 

The  mouldering  arch, 

Shaded  o'er  by  a  larch, 
Stands  next  door  to  Wilson  the  Hosier. 


Vice,  —  that  is,  by  turns,  — 

O'er  pale  faces  mourns 
The  black  tassell'd  trencher  and  common  hat 

The  charity  boy  sings, 

The  Steeple-bell  rings 
And  as  for  the  Chancellor  —  dominat. 

There  are  plenty  of  trees, 

And  plenty  of  ease, 
And  plenty  of  fat  deer  for  Parsons ; 

And  when  it  is  venison, 

Short  is  the  benison,  — 
Then  each  on  a  leg  or  thigh  fastens. 


TO  A  CAT 

These  verses  were  addressed  by  Keats  to  a 
cat  belonging  to  Mrs.  Reynolds  of  Little  Bri- 
tain, the  mother  of  his  friend  John  Hamilton 
Reynolds.  Mrs.  Reynolds  gave  the  verses  to 
her  son-in-law,  Tom  Hood,  who  published  them 
in  his  Comic  Annual  for  1830. 

CAT!   who  has[t]  pass'd  thy  grand  clima[e]- 

teric, 

How  many  mice  and  rats  hast  in  thy  days 
Destroy'd?  —  How  many  tit-bits    stolen? 

Gaze 
With  those  bright  languid  segments  green,  and 

prick 

Those  velvet  ears  —  but  pr'ythee  do  not  stick 
Thy  latent  talons  in  me  —  and  upraise 
Thy  gentle  mew  —  and  tell  me  all  thy  frays 
Of  fish  and  mice,  and  rats  and  tender  chick  : 
Nay,  look  not  down,  nor  lick  thy  dainty  wrists 

For  all  the  wheezy  asthma,  —  and  for  all 
Thy  tail's  tip  is  nick'd  off  — and  though  the 

fists 

Of  many  a  maid  has  given  thee  many  a  maul, 
Still  is  that  fur  as  soft  as  when  the  lists 

In  youth  thou  enter'dst  on  glass-bottled  walL 


LETTERS 


LETTERS   OF  JOHN   KEATS 


1.    TO  CHARLES  COWDEN  CLARKE 

[London,  October  31,  1816.] 
MY  DAINTIE  DAVIE  —  I  will  be  as  punc- 
tual as  the  Bee  to  the  Clover.  Very  glad 
am  I  at  the  thoughts  of  seeing  so  soon  this 
glorious  Haydon  and  all  his  creation.  I 
pray  thee  let  me  know  when  you  go  to 
Ollier's  and  where  he  resides  —  this  I  for- 
got to  ask  you  —  and  tell  me  also  when 
you  will  help  me  waste  a  sullen  day  —  God 
'ieldyou1—  J.  K. 

2.    TO   THE   SAME 

[London,]  Tuesday  [December  17, 1816]. 
MY  DEAR  CHARLES  —  You  may  now  look 
at  Minerva's  ^Egis  with  impunity,  seeing 
that  my  awful  Visage  2  did  not  turn  you 
into  a  John  Doree.  You  have  accordingly 
a  legitimate  title  to  a  Copy  —  I  will  use 
my  interest  to  procure  it  for  you.  I  '11  tell 
you  what  —  I  met  Reynolds  at  Haydon's  a 
few  mornings  since  —  he  promised  to  be 
with  me  this  Evening  and  Yesterday  I  had 
the  same  promise  from  Severn  and  I  must 
put  you  in  mind  that  on  last  All  hallow- 
mas'  day  you  gave  me  your  word  that  you 
would  spend  this  Evening  with  me  —  so  no 
putting  off.  I  have  done  little  to  Endy- 
mion  lately2  —  I  hope  to  finish  it  in  one 
more  attack.  I  believe  you  I  went  to 
Richards's  —  it  was  so  whoreson  a  Night 
that  I  stopped  there  all  the  next  day.  His 
Remembrances  to  you.  (Ext.  from  the 
common  place  Book  of  my  Mind  —  Mem. 

—  Wednesday  —  Hampstead  —  call   in 
Warner  Street  —  a  sketch  of  Mr.  Hunt.) 

—  I  will  ever  consider  you  my  sincere  and 
affectionate   friend  —  you   will  not  doubt 
that  I  am  yours. 

God  bless  you  —  JOHN  KEATS. 


3.    TO  JOHN  HAMILTON  REYNOLDS 

[London,]  Sunday  Evening 
[March  2, 1817?]. 

MY  DEAR  REYNOLDS  —  Your  kindness  8 
affects  me  so  sensibly  that  I  can  merely  put 
down  a  few  mono-sentences.  Your  Criti- 
cism only  makes  me  extremely  anxious  that 
I  should  not  deceive  you. 

It 's  the  finest  thing  by  God  as  Hazlitt 
would  say.  However  I  hope  I  may  not 
deceive  you.  There  are  some  acquaint- 
ances of  mine  who  will  scratch  their  Beards 
and  although  I  have,  I  hope,  some  Charity, 
I  wish  their  Nails  may  be  long.  I  will  be 
ready  at  the  time  you  mention  in  all  Hap- 
piness. 

There  is  a  report  that  a  young  Lady  of 
16  has  written  the  new  Tragedy,  God  bless 
her  —  I  will  know  her  by  Hook  or  by 
Crook  in  less  than  a  week.  My  Brothers' 
and  my  Remembrances  to  your  kind  Sis- 
ters. 

Yours  most  sincerely 

JOHN  KEATS. 

4.  TO  THE  SAME 

[London,  March  17,  1817.] 
MY  DEAR  REYNOLDS  —  My  Brothers  are 
anxious  that  I  should  go  by  myself  into  the 
country  —  they  have  always  been  extremely 
fond  of  me,  and  now  that  Haydon  has 
pointed  out  how  necessary  it  is  that  I  should 
be  alone  to  improve  myself,  they  give  up 
the  temporary  pleasure  of  living  with  me 
continually  for  a  great  good  which  I  hope 
will  follow.  So  I  shall  soon  be  out  of 
Town.  You  must  soon  bring  all  your  pre- 
sent troubles  to  a  close,  and  so  must  I,  but 
we  must,  like  the  Fox,  prepare  for  a  fresh 
swarm  of  flies.  Banish  money  —  Banish 


LETTERS   OF   JOHN    KEATS 


sofas  —  Banish  Wine  —  Banish  Music ;  but 
right  Jack  Health,  honest  Jack  Health, 
true  Jack  Health  —  Banish  health  and 
banish  all  the  world.  I  must  .  .  .  myself 
...  if  I  come  this  evening,  I  shall  horri- 
bly commit  myself  elsewhere.  So  I  will 
send  my  excuses  to  them  and  Mrs.  Dilke 
by  my  brothers. 

Your  sincere  friend 

JOHN  KEATS. 


5.    TO  GEORGE  AND  THOMAS  KEATS 

[Southampton,]  Tuesday  Morn 
[April  15,  1817]. 

MY  DEAR  BROTHERS  —  I  am  safe  at 
Southampton  —  after  having  ridden  three 
-stages  outside  and  the  rest  in  for  it  began  to 
be  very  cold.  I  did  not  know  the  Names  of 
any  of  the  Towns  I  passed  through  —  all  I 
can  tell  you  is  that  sometimes  I  saw  dusty 
Hedges  —  sometimes  Ponds  —  then  nothing 

—  then  a  little  Wood  with  trees  look  you 
like  Launce's    Sister  'as  white  as  a  Lily 
and   as   small  as   a  Wand '  —  then   came 
houses  which  died  away  into  a  few  strag- 
gling   Barns  —  then    came    hedge    trees 
aforesaid  again.     As  the  Lamplight  crept 
along  the  following  things  were  discovered 

—  *  long   heath   broom   furze  '  —  Hurdles 
here  and  there  half  a  Mile  —  Park  pal- 
ings when  the  Windows  of  a  House  were 
always    discovered    by    reflection  —  One 
Nymph    of     Fountain  —  N.    B.    Stone  — 
lopped   Trees  —  Cow   ruminating  —  ditto 
Donkey  —  Man   and   Woman   going   gin- 
gerly  along  —  William  seeing  his  Sisters 
over   the    Heath  —  John    waiting   with    a 
Lanthorn  for  his  Mistress  —  Barber's  Pole 

—  Doctor's  Shop  —  However  after  having 
had  my  fill  of  these  I  popped  my  Head  out 
just  as  it  began  to  Dawn  —  N.  B.  this  Tues- 
day Morn  saw  the  Sun  rise  —  of  which  I 
shall  say  nothing  at  present.     I  felt  rather 
lonely  this  Morning  at  Breakfast  so  I  went 
and    unbox'd   a   Shakspeare  —  '  There  's 
my  Comfort.' l     I  went  immediately  after 
Breakfast  to  Southampton  Water  where  I 


enquired  for  the  Boat  to  the  Isle  of  Wight 
as  I  intend  seeing  that  place  before  I  set- 
tle —  it  will  go  at  3,  so  shall  I  after  having 
taken  a  Chop.  I  know  nothing  of  this 
place  but  that  it  is  long  —  tolerably  broad 

—  has  bye  streets  —  two  or  three  Churches 

—  a  very   respectable  old  Gate  with  two 
Lions  to  guard  it.     The  Men  and  Women 
do  not  materially  differ  from  those  I  have 
been  in  the  Habit  of  seeing.     I  forgot  to 
say  that  from  dawn  till  half-past  six  I  went 
through  a  most  delightful  Country  —  some 
open  Down  but  for  the  most  part  thickly 
wooded.     What  surprised  me  most  was  an 
immense   quantity  of  blooming  Furze  on 
each  side  the   road  cutting  a   most  rural 
dash.      The    Southampton   water   when   I 
saw  it  just  now  was  no  better  than  a  low 
water   Water   which    did    no    more    than 
answer   my    expectations  —  it    will    have 
mended    its    Manners    by   3.      From    the 
Wharf  are  seen  the  shores  on  each  side 
stretching   to   the    Isle    of   Wight.      You, 
Haydon,  Reynolds,  etc.  have  been  pushing 
each  other  out  of    my  Brain  by  turns.     I 
have  conned  over  every  Head  in  Haydon's 
Picture  —  you  must  warn  them  not  to  be 
afraid   should   my   Ghost    visit    them    on 
Wednesday  —  tell  Haydon  to  Kiss  his  Hand 
at  Betty  over  the  Way  for  me  yea  and  to 
spy  at  her  for  me.     I  hope  one  of  you  will 
be  competent  to  take  part  in  a  Trio  while  I 
am  away  —  you  need  only  aggravate  your 
voices  a  little  and  mind  not  to  speak  Cues 
and  all  —  when  you  have  said  Rum-ti-ti  — 
you   must   not   be  rum  any  more  or  else 
another  will  take  up  the  ti-ti  alone  and  then 
he  might  be  taken  God  shield  us  for  little 
better  than  a  Titmouse.     By  the  by  talking 
of  Titmouse  Remember  me  particularly  to 
all  my  Friends  —  give  my  Love  to  the  Miss 
Reynoldses  and  to  Fanny  who  I  hope  you 
will  soon  see.  Write  to  me  soon  about  them 
all  —  and  you  George  particularly  how  you 
get  on  with  Wilkinson's  plan.    What  could 
I  have  done  without  my  Plaid  ?     I  don't 
feel  inclined  to  write  any  more  at  present 
for  I  feel  rather  muzzy  —  you  must  be  con- 


TO   JOHN    HAMILTON    REYNOLDS 


257 


tent  with  this  fac  simile  of  the  rough  plan 
of  Aunt  Dinah's  Counterpane.4 

Your  most  affectionate  Brother 

JOHN  KEATS. 

Reynolds  shall  hear  from  me  soon. 

6.       TO  JOHN  HAMILTON  REYNOLDS 

Carisbrooke,  April  17th  [1817]. 
MY  DEAR  REYNOLDS  —  Ever  since  I 
wrote  to  my  Brothers  from  Southampton 
I  have  been  in  a  taking —  and  at  this 
moment  I  am  about  to  become  settled  — 
for  I  have  unpacked  my  books,  put  them 
into  a  snug  corner,  pinned  up  Haydon, 
Mary  Queen  of  Scots,  and  Milton  with  his 
daughters  in  a  row.  In  the  passage  I  found 
a  head  of  Shakspeare  which  I  had  not  be- 
fore seen.  It  is  most  likely  the  same  that 
George  spoke  so  well  of,  for  I  like  it  ex- 
tremely. Well  —  this  head  I  have  hung 
over  my  Books,  just  above  the  three  in  a 
row,  having  first  discarded  a  French  Am- 
bassador —  now  this  alone  is  a  good  morn- 
ing's work.  Yesterday  I  went  to  Shanklin, 
which  occasioned  a  great  debate  in  my 
mind  whether  I  should  live  there  or  at 
Carisbrooke.  Shanklin  is  a  most  beautiful 
place  —  Sloping  wood  and  meadow  ground 
reach  round  the  Chine,  which  is  a  cleft  be- 
tween the  Cliffs  of  the  depth  of  nearly  300 
feet  at  least.  This  cleft  is  filled  with  trees 
and  bushes  in  the  narrow  part,  and  as  it 
widens  becomes  bare,  if  it  were  not  for 
primroses  on  one  side,  which  spread  to  the 
very  verge  of  the  Sea,  and  some  fishermen's 
huts  on  the  other,  perched  midway  in  the 
Balustrades  of  beautiful  green  Hedges 
along  their  steps  down  to  the  sands.  But 
the  sea,  Jack,  the  sea  —  the  little  waterfall 
—  then  the  white  cliff  —  then  St.  Cathe- 
rine's Hill  — « the  sheep  in  the  meadows,  the 
cows  in  the  corn.'  Then,  why  are  you  at 
Carisbrooke  ?  say  you.  Because,  in  the  first 
place,  I  should  be  at  twice  the  Expense, 
and  three  times  the  inconvenience  —  next 
that  from  here  I  can  see  your  continent  — 


from  a  little  hill  close  by  the  whole  north 
Angle  of  the  Isle  of  Wight,  with  the  water 
between  us.  In  the  3rd  place,  I  see  Caris- 
brooke Castle  from  my  window,  and  have 
found  several  delightful  wood-alleys,  and 
copses,  and  quick  freshes.  As  for  prim- 
roses—  the  Island  ought  to  be  called 
Primrose  Island  —  that  is,  if  the  nation  of 
Cowslips  agree  thereto,  of  which  there  are 
divers  Clans  just  beginning  to  lift  up  their 
heads.  Another  reason  of  my  fixing  is,  that 
I  am  more  in  reach  of  the  places  around 
me.  I  intend  to  walk  over  the  Island  east 
—  West  —  North  —  South.  I  have  not 
seen  many  specimens  of  Ruins  —  I  don't 
think  however  I  shall  ever  see  one  to  sur- 
pass Carisbrooke  Castle.  The  trench  is 
overgrown  with  the  smoothest  turf,  and  the 
Walls  with  ivy.  The  Keep  within  side  is 
one  Bower  of  ivy  —  a  colony  of  Jackdaws 
have  been  there  for  many  years.  I  dare 
say  I  have  seen  many  a  descendant  of  some 
old  cawer  who  peeped  through  the  Bars 
at  Charles  the  first,  when  he  was  there  in 
Confinement.  On  the  road  from  Cowes  to 
Newport  I  saw  some  extensive  Barracks, 
which  disgusted  me  extremely  with  the 
Government  for  placing  such  a  Nest  of  De- 
bauchery in  so  beautiful  a  place.  I  asked  a 
man  on  the  Coach  about  this  —  and  he  said 
that  the  people  had  been  spoiled.  In  the 
room  where  I  slept  at  Newport,  I  found 
this  on  the  Window  — « O  Isle  spoilt  by  the 
milatary !  .  .  .' 

The  wind  is  in  a  sulky  fit,  and  I  feel  that 
it  would  be  no  bad  thing  to  be  the  favourite 
of  some  Fairy,  who  would  give  one  the 
power  of  seeing  how  our  Friends  got  on  at 
a  Distance.  I  should  like,  of  all  Loves,  a 
sketch  of  you  and  Tom  and  George  in  ink 
which  Haydon  will  do  if  you  tell  him  how 
I  want  them.  From  want  of  regular  rest  I 
have  been  rather  narvus  —  and  the  passage 
in  Lear —  *  Do  you  not  hear  the  sea  ? '  — 
has  haunted  me  intensely. 

[Here  follows  the  sonnet  '  On  the  Sea,'  p.  37.] 


258 


LETTERS   OF   JOHN    KEATS 


April  18th. 

Will  you  have  the  goodness  to  do  this  ? 
Borrow  a  Botanical  Dictionary  —  turn  to 
the  words  Laurel  and  Prunus,  show  the  ex- 
planations to  your  sisters  and  Mrs.  Dilke 
and  without  more  ado  let  them  send  me  the 
Cups  Basket  and  Books  they  trifled  and 
put  off  and  off  while  I  was  in  town.  Ask 
them  what  they  can  say  for  themselves  — 
ask  Mrs.  Dilke  wherefore  she  does  so  dis- 
tress me  —  let  me  know  how  Jane  has  her 
health  —  the  Weather  is  unfavourable  for 
her.  Tell  George  and  Tom  to  write.  I  '11 
tell  you  what  —  on  the  23d  was  Shakspeare 
born.  Now  if  I  should  receive  a  letter  from 
you  and  another  from  my  Brothers  on  that 
day 't  would  be  a  parlous  good  thing.  When- 
ever you  write  say  a  word  or  two  on  some 
Passage  in  Shakspeare  that  may  have  come 
rather  new  to  you,  which  must  be  con- 
tinually happening,  notwithstanding  that 
we  read  the  same  Play  forty  times  —  for 
instance,  the  following  from  the  Tempest 
never  struck  me  so  forcibly  as  at  present, 

4  Urchins 

Shall,  for  the  vast  of  night  that  they  may  work, 
All  exercise  on  thee  —  ' 

How  can  I  help  bringing  to  your  mind  the 
line  — 

In  the  dark  backward  and  abysm  of  time  — 
I  find  I  cannot  exist  without  Poetry  — 
without  eternal  Poetry — half  the  day  will 
not  do  —  the  whole  of  it  —  I  began  with  a 
little,  but  habit  has  made  me  a  Leviathan. 
I  had  become  all  in  a  Tremble  from  not 
having  written  anything  of  late  —  the  Son- 
net overleaf  did  me  good.  I  slept  the  better 
last  night  for  it  —  this  Morning,  however, 
I  am  nearly  as  bad  again.  Just  now  I 
opened  Spenser,  and  the  first  Lines  I  saw 
were  these  — 
'The  noble  heart  that  harbours  virtuous 

thought, 

And  is  with  child  of  glorious  great  intent, 
Can  never  rest  until  it  forth  have  brought 
Th'  eternal  brood  of  glory  excellent  —  ' 
Let  me  know  particularly  about  Haydon, 
ask  him  to  write  to  me  about  Hunt,  if  it  be 


only  ten  lines  —  1  hope  all  is  well  —  I  shall 
forthwith  begin  my  Endymion,  which  I 
hope  I  shall  have  got  some  way  with  by  the 
time  you  come,  when  we  will  read  our 
verses  in  a  delightful  place  I  have  set  my 
heart  upon,  near  the  Castle.  Give  my  Love 
to  your  Sisters  severally  —  to  George  and 
Tom.  Remember  me  to  Rice,  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Dilke  and  all  we  know. 

Your  sincere  Friend        JOHN  KEATS. 

Direct  J.  Keats,  Mrs.  Cook's,  New  Vil- 
lage, Carisbrooke. 

7.      TO  LEIGH  HUNT 

Margate,  May  10, 1817. 
MY  DEAR  HUNT  —  The  little  gentleman 
that  sometimes  lurks  in  a  gossip's  bowl, 
ought  to  have  come  in  the  very  likeness  of 
a  roasted  crab,  and  choaked  me  outright  for 
not  answering  your  letter  ere  this:  how- 
ever, you  must  not  suppose  that  I  was  in 
town  to  receive  it :  no,  it  followed  me  to  the 
Isle  of  Wight,  and  I  got  it  just  as  I  was 
going  to  pack  up  for  Margate,  for  reasons 
which  you  anon  shall  hear.  On  arriving  at 
this  treeless  affair,  I  wrote  to  my  brother 
George  to  request  C.  C.  C.  to  do  the  thing 
you  wot  of  respecting  Rimini ;  and  George 
tells  me  he  has  undertaken  it  with  great 
pleasure;  so  I  hope  there  has  been  an  un- 
derstanding between  you  for  many  proofs: 
C.  C.  C.  is  well  acquainted  with  Bensley. 
Now  why  did  you  not  send  the  key  of  your 
cupboard,  which,  I  know,  was  full  of  pa- 
pers? We  would  have  locked  them  all  in 
a  trunk,  together  with  those  you  told  me 
to  destroy,  which  indeed  I  did  not  do,  for 
fear  of  demolishing  receipts,  there  not  being 
a  more  unpleasant  thing  in  the  world  (saving 
a  thousand  and  one  others)  than  to  pay  a 
bill  twice.  Mind  you,  old  Wood  's  a  '  very 
varmint,'  shrouded  in  covetousness:  —  and 
now  I  am  upon  a  horrid  subject  —  what  a 
horrid  one  you  were  upon  last  Sunday,  and 
well  you  handled  it.  The  last  Examiner 
was  a  battering-ram  against  Christianity, 
blasphemy,  Tertullian,  Erasmus,  Sir  Philip 


TO   LEIGH    HUNT 


259 


Sidney;  and  then  the  dreadful  Petzelians 
and  their  expiation  by  blood ;  and  do  Chris- 
tians shudder  at  the  same  thing  in  a  news- 
paper which  they  attribute  to  their  God  in 
its  most  aggravated  form?  What  is  to  be 
the  end  of  this?  I  must  mention  Hazlitt's 
Southey.5  O  that  he  had  left  out  the  grey 
hairs ;  or  that  they  had  been  in  any  other 
paper  not  concluding  with  such  a  thunder- 
clap !  That  sentence  about  making  a  page 
of  the  feeling  of  a  whole  life,  appears  to  me 
like  a  whale's  back  in  the  sea  of  prose. 
I  ought  to  have  said  a  word  on  Shak- 
speare's  Christianity.  There  are  two  which 
I  have  not  looked  over  with  you,  touching 
the  thing:  the  one  for,  the  other  against: 
that  in  favour  is  in  Measure  for  Measure, 
Act  II.  Scene  ii.  — 

Isab.  Alas,  alas ! 

Why,  all  the  souls  that  were,  were  forfeit  once; 
And  He  that  might  the  'vantage  best  have  took, 
Found  out  the  remedy. 

That  against  is  in  Twelfth  Night,  Act  III. 
Scene  ii.  — 

Maria.  For  there  is  no  Christian  that  means 
to  be  saved  by  believing  rightly,  can  ever  be- 
lieve such  impossible  passages  of  grossness. 

Before  I  come  to  the  Nymphs,6  I  must 
get  through  all  disagreeables.  I  went  to 
the  Isle  of  Wight,  thought  so  much  about 
poetry,  so  long  together,  that  I  could  not 
get  to  sleep  at  night;  and,  moreover,  I  know 
not  how  it  was,  I  could  not  get  wholesome 
food.  By  this  means,  in  a  week  or  so,  I  be- 
came not  over  capable  in  my  upper  stories, 
and  set  off  pell-mell  for  Margate,  at  least 
a  hundred  and  fifty  miles,  because,  forsooth, 
I  fancied  that  I  should  like  my  old  lodging 
here,  and  could  contrive  to  do  without  trees. 
Another  thing,  I  was  too  much  in  soli- 
tude, and  consequently  was  obliged  to  be  in 
continual  burning  of  thought,  as  an  only 
resource.  However,  Tom  is  with  me  at 
present,  and  we  are  very  comfortable.  We 
intend,  though,  to  get  among  some  trees. 
How  have  you  got  on  among  them?  How 
are  the  Nymphs  ?  1  suppose  they  have  led 


you  a  fine  dance.  Where  are  you  now  ?  — 
in  Judea,  Cappadocia,  or  the  parts  of  Libya 
about  Cyrene  ?  Stranger  from  '  Heaven, 
Hues,  and  Prototypes,'  I  wager  you  have 
given  several  new  turns  to  the  old  saying, 
'Now  the  maid  was  fair  and  pleasant  to 
look  on,'  as  well  as  made  a  little  variation 
in  *  Once  upon  a  time.'  Perhaps,  too,  you 
have  rather  varied,  '  Here  endeth  the  first 
lesson.'  Thus  I  hope  you  have  made  a 
horseshoe  business  of  « unsuperfluous  life,' 
'faint  bowers,'  and  fibrous  roots.  I  vow 
that  I  have  been  down  in  the  mouth  lately 
at  this  work.  These  last  two  days,  how- 
ever, I  have  felt  more  confident  —  I  have 
asked  myself  so  often  why  I  should  be  a 
poet  more  than  other  men,  seeing  how 
great  a  thing  it  is,  —  how  great  things  are 
to  be  gained  by  it,  what  a  thing  to  be  in 
the  mouth  of  Fame,  —  that  at  last  the  idea 
has  grown  so  monstrously  beyond  my  seem- 
ing power  of  attainment,  that  the  other  day 
I  nearly  consented  with  myself  to  drop  into 
a  Phaethon.  Yet  'tis  a  disgrace  to  fail, 
even  in  a  huge  attempt;  and  at  this  mo- 
ment I  drive  the  thought  from  me.  I  began 
my  poem  about  a  fortnight  since,  and  have 
done  some  every  day,  except  travelling 
ones.  Perhaps  I  may  have  done  a  good 
deal  for  the  time,  but  it  appears  such  a 
pin's  point  to  me,  that  I  will  not  copy  any 
out.  When  I  consider  that  so  many  of 
these  pin-points  go  to  form  a  bodkin-point 
(God  send  I  end  not  my  life  with  a  bare 
bodkin,  in  its  modern  sense!),  and  that  it 
requires  a  thousand  bodkins  to  make  a  spear 
bright  enough  to  throw  any  light  to  pos- 
terity, I  see  nothing  but  continual  uphill 
journeying.  Now  is  there  anything  more 
unpleasant  (it  may  come  among  the  thou- 
sand and  one)  than  to  be  so  journeying  and 
to  miss  the  goal  at  last  ?  But  I  intend  to 
whistle  all  these  cogitations  into  the  sea, 
where  I  hope  they  will  breed  storms  violent 
enough  to  block  up  all  exit  from  Russia. 
Does  Shelley  go  on  telling  strange  stories 
of  the  deaths  of  kings  ? 7  Tell  him,  there 
are  strange  stories  of  the  deaths  of  poets. 


260 


LETTERS    OF   JOHN    KEATS 


Some  have  died  before  they  were  con- 
ceived. *  How  do  you  make  that  out, 
Master  Vellum  ?  '  Does  Mrs.  S.  cut  bread 
and  butter  as  neatly  as  ever  ?  Tell  her  to 
procure  some  fatal  scissors,  and  cut  the 
thread  of  life  of  all  to-be-disappointed 
poets.  Does  Mrs.  Hunt  tear  linen  as 
straight  as  ever?  Tell  her  to  tear  from 
the  book  of  life  all  blank  leaves.  Remem- 
ber me  to  them  all;  to  Miss  Kent  and  the 
little  ones  all. 

Your  sincere  Friend 

JOHN  KEATS  alias  JUNKETS. 

You  shall  hear  where  we  move. 


8.   TO  BENJAMIN  ROBERT  HAYDON 

Margate,  Saturday  Eve  [May  10,  1817]. 
MY  DEAR  HAYDON, 

'  Let  Fame,  that  all  pant  after  in  their  lives, 
Jjive  register'd  upon  our  brazen  tombs, 
And  so  grace  us  in  the  disgrace  of  death : 
When  spite  of  cormorant  devouring  Time 
The  endeavour  of  this  present  breath  may  buy 
That  Honour  which  shall  bate  his  Scythe's  keen 


And  make  us  heirs  of  all  eternity.' 

Love's  Labour  's  Lost,  I.  i.  1—7. 

To  think  that  I  have  no  right  to  couple 
myself  with  you  in  this  speech  would  be 
death  to  me,  so  I  have  e'en  written  it,  and 
I  pray  God  that  our  '  brazen  tombs '  be 
nigh  neighbours.  It  cannot  be  long  first ; 
the  '  endeavour  of  this  present  breath '  will 
soon  be  over,  and  yet  it  is  as  well  to  breathe 
freely  during  our  sojourn  —  it  is  as  well 
as  if  you  have  not  been  teased  with  that 
Money  affair,  that  bill-pestilence.  How- 
ever, I  must  think  that  difficulties  nerve 
the  Spirit  of  a  Man  —  they  make  our  Prime 
Objects  a  Refuge  as  well  as  a  Passion.  The 
Trumpet  of  Fame  is  as  a  tower  of  Strength, 
the  ambitious  bloweth  it  and  is  safe.  I  sup- 
pose, by  your  telling  me  not  to  give  way  to 
forebodings,  George  has  mentioned  to  you 
what  1  have  lately  said  in  my  Letters  to 
him  —  truth  is  I  have  been  in  such  a  state 
of  Mind  as  to  read  over  my  Lines  and  hate 


them.  I  am  one  that  '  gathers  Samphire, 
dreadful  trade '  —  the  Cliff  of  Poesy 
towers  above  me  —  yet  when  Tom  who 
meets  with  some  of  Pope's  Homer  in  Plu- 
tarch's Lives  reads  some  of  those  to  me 
they  seem  like  Mice  to  mine.  I  read  and 
write  about  eight  hours  a  day.  There  is  an 
old  saying  '  well  begun  is  half  done  '  — 
't  is  a  bad  one.  I  would  use  instead,  *  Not 
begun  at  all  till  half  done ; '  so  according  to 
that  I  have  not  begun  my  Poem  and  conse- 
quently (a  priori)  can  say  nothing  about  it. 
Thank  God !  I  do  begin  arduously  where 
I  leave  off,  notwithstanding  occasional  de- 
pressions ;  and  I  hope  for  the  support  of 
a  High  Power  while  I  climb  this  little  emi- 
nence, and  especially  in  my  Years  of  more 
momentous  Labour.  I  remember  your  say- 
ing that  you  had  notions  of  a  good  Genius 
presiding  over  you.  I  have  of  late  had  the 
same  thought,  for  things  which  I  do  half  at 
Random  are  afterwards  confirmed  by  my 
judgment  in  a  dozen  features  of  Propriety. 
Is  it  too  daring  to  fancy  Shakspeare  this 
Presider  ?  When  in  the  Isle  of  Wight  I  met 
with  a  Shakspeare  in  the  Passage  of  the 
House  at  which  I  lodged  —  it  comes  nearer 
to  my  idea  of  him  than  any  I  have  seen  — 
I  was  but  there  a  Week,  yet  the  old  woman 
made  me  take  it  with  me  though  I  went  off 
in  a  hurry.  Do  you  not  think  this  is  omi- 
nous of  good  ?  I  am  glad  you  say  every 
man  of  great  views  is  at  times  tormented 
as  I  am. 

Sunday  after  [May  11] 
This  Morning  I  received  a  letter  from 
George  by  which  it  appears  that  Money 
Troubles  are  to  follow  us  up  for  some  time 
to  come  —  perhaps  for  always  —  these  vexa- 
tions are  a  great  hindrance  to  one  —  they 
are  not  like  Envy  and  detraction  stimulants 
to  further  exertion  as  being  immediately 
relative  and  reflected  on  at  the  same  time 
with  the  prime  object  —  but  rather  like  a 
nettle  leaf  or  two  in  your  bed.  So  now  I 
revoke  my  Promise  of  finishing  my  Poem 
by  the  Autumn  which  I  should  have  done 
had  I  gone  on  as  I  have  done  —  but  I  can 


TO    BENJAMIN    ROBERT    HAYDON 


26: 


not  write  while  my  spirit  is  fevered  in  a 
contrary  direction  and  I  am  now  sure  of 
having  plenty  of  it  this  Summer.  At  this 
moment  I  am  in  no  enviable  Situation  — 
I  feel  that  I  am  not  in  a  Mood  to  write 
any  to-day;  and  it  appears  that  the  loss  of 
it  is  the  beginning  of  all  sorts  of  irregu- 
larities. I  am  extremely  glad  that  a  time 
must  come  when  everything  will  leave  not 
a  wrack  behind.  You  tell  me  never  to 
despair  —  I  wish  it  was  as  easy  for  me  to 
observe  the  saying  —  truth  is  I  have  a 
horrid  Morbidity  of  Temperament  which 
has  shown  itself  at  intervals  —  it  is  I  have 
no  doubt  the  greatest  Enemy  and  stumbling- 
block  I  have  to  fear  —  I  may  even  say  that 
it  is  likely  to  be  the  cause  of  my  disappoint- 
ment. However  every  ill  has  its  share  of 
good  —  this  very  bane  would  at  any  time 
enable  me  to  look  with  an  obstinate  eye  on 
the  Devil  Himself  —  aye  to  be  as  proud  of 
being  the  lowest  of  the  human  race  as 
Alfred  could  be  in  being  of  the  highest. 
I  feel  confident  I  should  have  been  a  rebel 
angel  had  the  opportunity  been  mine.  I  am 
very  sure  that  you  do  love  me  as  your  very 
Brother  —  I  have  seen  it  in  your  continual 
anxiety  for  me  —  and  I  assure  you  that 
your  welfare  and  fame  is  and  will  be  a 
chief  pleasure  to  me  all  my  Life.  I  know 
no  one  but  you  who  can  be  fully  sensible  of 
the  turmoil  and  anxiety,  the  sacrifice  of  all 
what  is  called  comfort,  the  readiness  to 
measure  time  by  what  is  done  and  to  die  in 
six  hours  could  plans  be  brought  to  conclu- 
sions —  the  looking  upon  the  Sun,  the  Moon, 
tke  Stars,  the  Earth  and  its  contents,  as 
materials  to  form  greater  things  —  that  is 
to  say  ethereal  things  —  but  here  I  am 
talking  like  a  Madman,  —  greater  things 
than  our  Creator  himself  made  !  ! 

I  wrote  to  Hunt  yesterday  —  scarcely 
know  what  I  said  in  it.  I  could  not  talk 
about  Poetry  in  the  way  I  should  have  liked 
for  I  was  not  in  humor  with  either  his  or 
mine.  His  self-delusions  are  very  lament- 
able —  they  have  enticed  him  into  a  Situa- 
tion which  I  should  be  less  eager  after  than 


that  of  a  galley  Slave  —  what  you  observe 
thereon  is  very  true  must  be  in  time. 

Perhaps  it  is  a  self-delusion  to  say  so  — 
but  I  think  I  could  not  be  deceived  in  the 
manner  that  Hunt  is  —  may  I  die  to- 
morrow if  I  am  to  be.  There  is  no  greater 
Sin  after  the  seven  deadly  than  to  flatter 
oneself  into  an  idea  of  being  a  great  Poet 
—  or  one  of  those  beings  who  are  privileged 
to  wear  out  their  Lives  in  the  pursuit  of 
Honor  —  how  comfortable  a  feel  it  is  to  feel 
that  such  a  Crime  must  bring  its  heavy 
Penalty?  That  if  one  be  a  Self-deluder 
accounts  must  be  balanced?  I  am  glad 
you  are  hard  at  Work  —  't  will  now  soon 
be  done  —  I  long  to  see  Wordsworth's  as 
well  as  to  have  mine  in:8  but  I  would 
rather  not  show  my  face  in  Town  till  the 
end  of  the  Year  —  if  that  will  be  time 
enough  —  if  not  I  shall  be  disappointed  if 
you  do  not  write  for  me  even  when  you 
think  best.  I  never  quite  despair  and  I  read 
Shakspeare  —  indeed  I  shall  I  think  never 
read  any  other  Book  much.  Now  this  might 
lead  me  into  a  long  Confab  but  I  desist. 
I  am  very  near  agreeing  with  Hazlitt  that 
Shakspeare  is  enough  for  us.  By  the  by 
what  a  tremendous  Southean  article  his  last 
was  —  I  wish  he  had  left  out  'grey  hairs.' 
It  was  very  gratifying  to  meet  your  re- 
marks on  the  manuscript  —  I  was  reading 
Anthony  and  Cleopatra  when  I  got  the 
Paper  and  there  are  several  Passages  ap- 
plicable to  the  events  you  commentate. 
You  say  that  he  arrived  by  degrees  and  not 
by  any  single  struggle  to  the  height  of  his 
ambition  —  and  that  his  Life  had  been  as 
common  in  particulars  as  other  Men's. 
Shakspeare  makes  Enobarb  say  — 

Where 's  Antony  ? 
Eros.  —  He 's  walking  in  the  garden,  and 

spurns 

The  rush  that  lies  before  him ;  cries,  Fool,  Le- 
pidus! 

In  the  same  scene  we  find  — 

Let  determined  things 
To  destiny  hold  unbewailed  their  way. 


262 


LETTERS    OF   JOHN   KEATS 


Dolabella  says  of  Anthony's  Messenger, 

An  argument  that  he  is  pluck'd  when  hither 
He  sends  so  poor  a  pinion  of  his  wing. 

Then  again  — 

Eno.  —  I  see  Men's  Judgments  are 
A  parcel  of  their  fortunes ;  and  things  outward 
Do  draw  the  inward  quality  after  them, 
To  suffer  all  alike. 

The  following  applies  well  to  Bertrand  9  — 

Yet  he  that  can  endure 
To  follow  with  allegiance  a  fallen  Lord, 
Does  conquer  him  that  did  his  Master  conquer, 
And  earns  a  place  i'  the  story. 

But  how  differently  does  Buonaparte  bear 
his  fate  from  Anthony  ! 

'T  is  good,  too,  that  the  Duke  of  Welling- 
ton has  a  good  Word  or  so  in  the  Examiner. 
A  man  ought  to  have  the  Fame  he  deserves 
—  and  I  begin  to  think  that  detracting 
from  him  as  well  as  from  Wordsworth  is 
the  same  thing.  I  wish  he  had  a  little  more 
taste  —  and  did  not  in  that  respect  *  deal 
in  Lieutenantry.'  You  should  have  heard 
from  me  before  this  —  but  in  the  first  place 
I  did  not  like  to  do  so  before  I  had  got  a 
little  way  in  the  First  Book,  and  in  the 
next  as  G.  told  me  you  were  going  to  write 
I  delayed  till  I  had  heard  from  you.  Give 
my  Respects  the  next  time  you  write  to  the 
North  and  also  to  John  Hunt.  Remember 
me  to  Reynolds  and  tell  him  to  write.  Ay, 
and  when  you  send  Westward  tell  your 
Sister  that  I  mentioned  her  in  this.  So  now 
in  the  name  of  Shakspeare,  Raphael  and 
all  our  Saints,  I  commend  you  to  the  care 
of  heaven  ! 

Your  everlasting  Friend  JOHN  KEATS. 


9.      TO  MESSRS.   TAYLOR  AND  HESSE Y 

Margate,  May  16,  1817. 
MY  DEAR  SIRS  — I  am  extremely  indebted 
to  you  for  your  liberality  in  the  shape  of 
manufactured  rag,  value  £20,  and  shall  im- 
mediately proceed  to  destroy  some  of  the 
minor  heads  of  that  hydra  the  dun;  to  con- 
quer which  the  knight  need  have  no  Sword 


Shield  Cuirass,  Cuisses  Herbadgeon  Spear 
Casque  Greaves  Paldrons  spurs  Chevron  or 
any  other  scaly  commodity,  but  he  need 
only  take  the  Bank-note  of  Faith  and  Cash 
of  Salvation,  and  set  out  against  the  mon- 
ster, invoking  the  aid  of  no  Archimago  or 
Urganda,  but  finger  me  the  paper,  light  as 
the  Sibyl's  leaves  in  Virgil,  whereat  the 
fiend  skulks  off  with  his  tail  between  his 
legs.  Touch  him  with  this  enchanted  paper, 
and  he  whips  you  his  head  away  as  fast 
as  a  snail's  horn  —  but  then  the  horrid 
propensity  he  has  to  put  it  up  again  has 
discouraged  many  very  valiant  Knights.  He 
is  such  a  never-ending  still-beginning  sort 
of  a  body  —  like  my  landlady  of  the  Bell. 
I  should  conjecture  that  the  very  spright 
that  '  the  green  sour  ringlets  makes  Where- 
of the  ewe  not  bites '  had  manufactured  it 
of  the  dew  fallen  on  said  sour  ringlets.  I 
think  I  could  make  a  nice  little  allegorical 
poem,  called  '  The  Dun,'  where  we  would 
have  the  Castle  of  Carelessness,  the  draw- 
bridge of  credit,  Sir  Novelty  Fashion's 
expedition  against  the  City  of  Tailors,  etc. 
etc.  I  went  day  by  day  at  my  poem  for  a 
Month  —  at  the  end  of  which  time  the  other 
day  I  found  my  Brain  so  over-wrought  that 
I  had  neither  rhyme  nor  reason  in  it  —  so 
was  obliged  to  give  up  for  a  few  days.  I 
hope  soon  to  be  able  to  resume  my  work  — 
I  have  endeavoured  to  do  so  once  or  twice; 
but  to  no  purpose.  Instead  of  Poetry,  I 
have  a  swimming  in  my  head  and  feel  all 
the  effects  of  a  Mental  debauch,  lowness  of 
Spirits,  anxiety  to  go  on  without  the  power 
to  do  so,  which  does  not  at  all  tend  to  my 
ultimate  progression.  However  tomorrow 
I  will  begin  my  next  month.  This  evening 
I  go  to  Canterbury,  having  got  tired  of 
Margate.  I  was  not  right  in  my  head  when 
I  came  —  At  Canterbury  I  hope  the  remem- 
brance of  Chaucer  will  set  me  forward  like 
a  Billiard  Ball.  I  am  glad  to  hear  of  Mr. 
T.'s  health,  and  of  the  welfare  of  the  « In- 
town-stayers.'  And  think  Reynolds  will 
like  his  Trip  —  I  have  some  idea  of  seeing 
the  Continent  some  time  this  summer.  In 


TO   MARIANE  AND  JANE   REYNOLDS 


263 


repeating  how  sensible  I  am  of  your  kind- 
ness, I  remain 

Yr  obed*  serv'  and  friend  JOHN  KEATS. 

I  shall  be  happy  to  hear  any  little  intelli- 
gence in  the  literary  or  friendly  way  when 
you  have  time  to  scribble. 


10.      TO  THE   SAME 

[London]  Tuesday  Morn  [July  8,  1817]. 

MY  DEAR  SIRS  —  I  must  endeavour  to 
lose  my  maidenhead  with  respect  to  money 
Matters  as  soon  as  possible  —  And  I  will 
too  —  So,  here  goes  !  A  couple  of  Duns 
that  I  thought  would  be  silent  till  the 
beginning,  at  least,  of  next  month  (when  I 
am  certain  to  be  on  my  legs,  for  certain 
sure),  have  opened  upon  me  with  a  cry 
most  *  untuneable  ; '  never  did  you  hear 
such  un-'  gallant  chiding.'  Now  you  must 
know,  I  am  not  desolate,  but  have,  thank 
God,  25  good  notes  in  my  fob.  But  then, 
yon  know,  I  laid  them  by  to  write  with  and 
would  stand  at  bay  a  fortnight  ere  they 
should  grab  me.  In  a  month's  time  I  must 
pay,  but  it  would  relieve  my  mind  if  I  owed 
you,  instead  of  these  Pelican  duns. 

I  am  afraid  you  will  say  I  have  '  wound 
about  with  circumstance,'  when  I  should 
have  asked  plainly  —  however  as  I  said  I 
am  a  little  maidenish  or  so,  and  I  feel  my 
virginity  come  strong  upon  me,  the  while 
I  request  the  loan  of  a  £20  and  a  £10, 
which,  if  you  would  enclose  to  me,  I  would 
acknowledge  and  save  myself  a  hot  fore- 
head. I  am  sure  you  are  confident  of  my 
responsibility,  and  in  the  sense  of  square- 
ness that  is  always  in  me. 

Your  obliged  friend        JOHN  KEATS. 


11.      TO  MAKIANE  AND  JAKE  REYNOLDS10 

Oxf[ord,  Septembers,  1817]. 
MY  DEAR  FRIENDS  —  You  are  I  am  glad 
to  hear  comfortable  at  Hampton,11  where  I 
hope  you  will  receive  the  Biscuits  we  ate 


the  other  night  at  Little  Britain.  I  hope 
you  found  them  good.  There  you  are  among 
sands,  stones,  Pebbles,  Beeches,  Cliffs, 
Rocks,  Deeps,  Shallows,  weeds,  ships,  Boats 
(at  a  distance),  Carrots,  Turnips,  sun, 
moon,  and  stars  and  all  those  sort  of  things 

—  here  am  I  among  Colleges,  halls,  Stalls, 
Plenty  of  Trees,  thank  God  —  Plenty  of 
water,  thank   heaven  —  Plenty  of   Books, 
thank  the  Muses  —  Plenty  of  Snuff,  thank 
Sir  Walter  Raleigh  —  Plenty  of  segars,  — 
Ditto  —  Plenty  of  flat  country,  thank  Tel- 
lus's  rolling-pin.    I  'm  on  the  sofa  —  Buon- 
aparte is  on  the  snuff-box  —  But  you  are 
by  the  seaside  —  argal,  you  bathe  —  you 
walk  —  you    say    « how    beautiful '  —  find 
out  resemblances  between  waves  and  camels 

—  rocks  and  dancing-masters  —  fireshovels 
and  telescopes  —  Dolphins  and  Madonas  — 
which  word,  by  the  way,  I  must  acquaint 
you  was  derived  from  the  Syriac,  and  came 
down  in  a  way  which  neither  of  you  I  am 
sorry  to  say  are  at  all  capable  of  compre- 
hending.   But  as  a  time  may  come  when  by 
your  occasional  converse  with  me  you  may 
arrive  at  '  something  like  prophetic  strain,' 
I  will  unbar  the  gates  of  my  pride  and  let 
my  condescension  stalk  forth  like  a  ghost 
at  the  Circus.  —  The  word  Ma-don-a,  my 
dear  Ladies  —  or  —  the  word  Mad  —  Ona — 
so  I  say  !     I  am  not  mad  —  Howsumever 
when  that  aged   Tamer  Kewthon  sold  a 
certain  camel  called  Peter  to  the  overseer 
of  the   Babel  Sky-works,   he   thus  spake, 
adjusting  his  cravat  round  the  tip  of  his 
chin  — '  My  dear  Ten-story-up-in-air  !  this 
here  Beast,  though  I  say  it  as  shouldn't 
say 't,  not  only  has  the  power  of  subsisting 
40   days   and   40   nights  without   fire  and 
candle  but  he  can  sing.  —  Here  I  have  in 
my  Pocket  a  Certificate  from  Signer  Nico- 
lini  of  the  King's  Theatre;  a  Certificate  to 

this  effect '  I  have  had  dinner  since  I 

left  that  effect  upon  you,  and  feel  too  heavy 
in  mentibus  to  display  all  the  Profundity 
of  the  Polygon— so  you  had  better  each 
of  you  take  a  glass  of  cherry  Brandy  and 
drink  to  the  health  of  Archimedes,  who  was 


264 


LETTERS   OF   JOHN    KEATS 


of  so  benign  a  disposition  that  he  never 
would  leave  Syracuse  in  his  life  —  So  kept 
himself  out  of  all  Knight- Errantry.  —  This 
I  know  to  be  a  fact;  for  it  is  written  in  the 
45th  book  of  Winkine's  treatise  on  garden- 
rollers,  that  he  trod  on  a  fishwoman's  toe 
in  Liverpool,  and  never  begged  her  pardon. 
Now  the  long  and  short  is  this  —  that  is  by 
comparison  —  for  a  long  day  may  be  a 
short  year  —  A  long  Pole  may  be  a  very 
stupid  fellow  as  a  man.  But  let  us  refresh 
ourself  from  this  depth  of  thinking,  and 
turn  to  some  innocent  jocularity  —  the  Bow 
cannot  always  be  bent  —  nor  the  gun  always 
loaded,  if  you  ever  let  it  off  —  and  the  life 
of  man  is  like  a  great  Mountain  —  his  breath 
is  like  a  Shrewsbury  cake  —  he  comes  into 
the  world  like  a  shoeblack,  and  goes  out  of 
it  like  a  cobbler  —  he  eats  like  a  chimney- 
sweeper, drinks  like  a  gingerbread  baker 

—  and  breathes  like  Achilles  —  so  it  being 
that  we  are  such  sublunary  creatures,  let 
us  endeavour  to  correct  all  our  bad  spelling 

—  all  our  most  delightful  abominations,  and 
let  us  wish   health  to  Mariane  and  Jane, 
whoever  they  be  and  wherever. 

Yours  truly  JOHN  KEATS. 


12.      TO  FANNY  KEATS 

Oxford,  September  10  [1817]. 

MY  DEAR  FANNY  —  Let  us  now  begin  a 
regular  question  and  answer  —  a  little  pro 
and  con;  letting  it  interfere  as  a  pleasant 
method  of  my  coming  at  your  favorite  little 
wants  and  enjoyments,  that  I  may  meet 
them  in  a  way  befitting  a  brother. 

We  have  been  so  little  together  since  you 
have  been  able  to  reflect  on  things  that  I 
know  not  whether  you  prefer  the  History 
of  King  Pepin  to  Bunyan's  Pilgrim's  Pro- 
gress —  or  Cinderella  and  her  glass  slipper 
to  Moore's  Almanack.  However  in  a  few 
Letters  I  hope  I  shall  be  able  to  come  at 
that  and  adapt  my  scribblings  to  your 
Pleasure.  You  must  tell  me  about  all  you 
read  if  it  be  only  six  Pages  in  a  Week  and 


this  transmitted  to  me  every  now  and  then 
will  procure  you  full  sheets  of  Writing  from 
me  pretty  frequently.  —  This  I  feel  as  a 
necessity  for  we  ought  to  become  intimately 
acquainted,  in  order  that  I  may  not  only, 
as  you  grow  up  love  you  as  my  only  Sister, 
but  confide  in  you  as  my  dearest  friend. 
When  I  saw  you  last  I  told  you  of  my  in- 
tention of  going  to  Oxford  and  't  is  now  a 
Week  since  I  disembark'd  from  his  Whip- 
ship's  Coach  the  Defiance  in  this  place.  I 
am  living  in  Magdalen  Hall  on  a  visit  to  a 
young  Man  with  whom  I  have  not  been 
long  acquainted,  but  whom  I  like  very 
much  —  we  lead  very  industrious  lives  — 
he  in  general  Studies  and  I  in  proceeding 
at  a  pretty  good  rate  with  a  Poem  which  I 
hope  you  will  see  early  in  the  next  year.  — 
Perhaps  you  might  like  to  know  what  I  am 
writing  about.  I  will  tell  you.  Many  Years 
ago  there  was  a  young  handsome  Shepherd 
who  fed  his  flocks  on  a  Mountain's  Side 
called  Latmus  —  he  was  a  very  contempla- 
tive sort  of  Person  and  lived  solitary  among 
the  trees  and  Plains  little  thinking  that 
such  a  beautiful  Creature  as  the  Moon  was 
growing  mad  in  Love  with  him.  —  However 
so  it  was;  and  when  he  was  asleep  on  the 
Grass  she  used  to  come  down  from  heaven 
and  admire  him  excessively  for  a  long  time ; 
and  at  last  could  not  refrain  from  carrying 
him  away  in  her  arms  to  the  top  of  that 
high  Mountain  Latmus  while  he  was  a 
dreaming  —  but  I  daresay  you  have  read 
this  and  all  the  other  beautiful  Tales  which 
have  come  down  from  the  ancient  times  of 
that  beautiful  Greece.  If  you  have  not  let 
me  know  and  I  will  tell'  you  more  at  large 
of  others  quite  as  delightful.  This  Oxford 
I  have  no  doubt  is  the  finest  City  in  the 
world  —  it  is  full  of  old  Gothic  buildings  — 
Spires  —  towers  —  Quadrangles  —  Clois- 
ters —  Groves,  etc.,  and  is  surrounded  with 
more  clear  streams  than  ever  I  saw  to- 
gether. I  take  a  Walk  by  the  Side  of  one 
of  them  every  Evening  and,  thank  God,  we 
have  not  had  a  drop  of  rain  these  many 
days.  I  had  a  long  and  interesting  Letter 


TO   JANE   REYNOLDS 


265 


from  George,  cross  lines  by  a  short  one  from 
Tom  yesterday  dated  Paris.  They  both 
send  their  loves  to  you.  Like  most  English- 
men they  feel  a  mighty  preference  for 
everything  English  —  the  French  Meadows, 
the  trees,  the  People,  the  Towns,  the 
Churches,  the  Books,  the  everything  —  al- 
though they  may  be  in  themselves  good: 
yet  when  put  in  comparison  with  our  green 
Island  they  all  vanish  like  Swallows  in 
October.  They  have  seen  Cathedrals,  Man- 
uscripts, Fountains,  Pictures,  Tragedy, 
Comedy,  —  with  other  things  you  may  by 
chance  meet  with  in  this  Country  such  as 
Washerwomen,  Lamplighters,  Turnpike- 
men,  Fishkettles,  Dancing  Masters,  Kettle 
drums,  Sentry  Boxes,  Rocking  Horses,  etc. 
—  and,  now  they  have  taken  them  over  a 
set  of  boxing-gloves. 

I  have  written  to  George  and  requested 
him,  as  you  wish  I  should,  to  write  to  you. 
I  have  been  writing  very  hard  lately,  even 
till  an  utter  incapacity  came  on,  and  I  feel  it 
now  about  my  head:  so  you  must  not  mind 
a  little  out-of-the-way  sayings  —  though  by 
the  bye  were  my  brain  as  clear  as  a  bell 
I  think  I  should  have  a  little  propensity 
thereto.  I  shall  stop  here  till  I  have  finished 
the  3d  Book  of  my  Story;  which  I  hope  will 
be  accomplish'd  in  at  most  three  Weeks  from 
to-day  —  about  which  time  you  shall  see 
me.  How  do  you  like  Miss  Taylor's  essays 
in  Rhyme  12  —  I  just  look'd  into  the  Book 
and  it  appeared  to  me  suitable  to  you  — 
especially  since  I  remember  your  liking  for 
those  pleasant  little  things  the  Original 
Poems  —  the  essays  are  the  more  mature 
production  of  the  same  hand.  While  I  was 
speaking  about  France  it  occurred  to  me  to 
speak  a  few  Words  on  their  Language  —  it 
is  perhaps  the  poorest  one  ever  spoken  since 
the  jabbering  in  the  Tower  of  Babel,  and 
when  you  come  to  know  that  the  real  use 
and  greatness  of  a  Tongue  is  to  be  referred 
to  its  Literature  —  you  will  be  astonished  to 
find  how  very  inferior  it  is  to  our  native 
Speech.  —  I  wish  the  Italian  would  super- 
sede French  in  every  school  throughout  the 


Country,  for  that  is  full  of  real  Poetry  and 
Romance  of  a  kind  more  fitted  for  the  Plea- 
sure of  Ladies  than  perhaps  our  own.  —  It 
seems  that  the  only  end  to  be  gained  in 
acquiring  French  is  the  immense  accom- 
plishment of  speaking  it  —  it  is  none  at  all 
—  a  most  lamentable  mistake  indeed.  Ital- 
ian indeed  would  sound  most  musically 
from  Lips  which  had  began  to  pronounce 
it  as  early  as  French  is  crammed  down  our 
Mouths,  as  if  we  were  young  Jackdaws  at 
the  mercy  of  an  overfeeding  Schoolboy.  Now 
Fanny  you  must  write  soon  —  and  write  all 
you  think  about,  never  mind  what — only 
let  me  have  a  good  deal  of  your  writing  — 
You  need  not  do  it  all  at  once  —  be  two  or 
three  or  four  days  about  it,  and  let  it  be  a 
diary  of  your  little  Life.  You  will  preserve 
all  my  Letters  and  I  will  secure  yours  — 
and  thus  in  the  course  of  time  we  shall  each 
of  us  have  a  good  Bundle  —  which,  here- 
after, when  things  may  have  strangely  al- 
tered and  God  knows  what  happened,  we 
may  read  over  together  and  look  with  plea- 
sure on  times  past  —  that  now  are  to  come. 
Give  my  Respects  to  the  Ladies  —  and  so 
my  dear  Fanny  I  am  ever 

Your  most  affectionate  Brother    JOHN. 

If  you  direct  —  Post  Office,  Oxford  — 
your  Letter  will  be  brought  to  me. 


13.      TO  JANE  REYNOLDS 

Oxford,  Sunday  Evg.  [September  14,  1817]. 

MY  DEAR  JANE  —  You  are  such  a  literal 
translator,  that  I  shall  some  day  amuse 
myself  with  looking  over  some  foreign 
sentences,  and  imagining  how  you  would 
render  them  into  English.  This  is  an  age 
for  typical  Curiosities ;  and  I  would  advise 
you,  as  a  good  speculation,  to  study  Hebrew, 
and  astonish  the  world  with  a  figurative 
version  in  our  native  tongue.  The  Moun- 
tains skipping  like  rams,  and  the  little  hills 
like  lambs,  you  will  leave  as  far  behind  as 
the  hare  did  the  tortoise.  It  must  be  so  or 
you  would  never  have  thought  that  I  really 


266 


LETTERS    OF   JOHN   KEATS 


meant  you  would  like  to  pro  and  con  about 
those  Honeycombs  —  no,  I  had  no  such 
idea,  or,  if  I  had,  't  would  be  only  to  tease 
you  a  little  for  love.  So  now  let  me  put 
down  in  black  and  white  briefly  my  senti- 
ments thereon.  —  Imprimis  —  I  sincerely 
believe  that  Imogen  is  the  finest  creature, 
and  that  I  should  have  been  disappointed 
at  hearing  you  prefer  Juliet  —  Item  —  Yet 
I  feel  such  a  yearning  towards  Juliet  that  I 
would  rather  follow  her  into  Pandemonium 
than  Imogen  into  Paradise  —  heartily  wish- 
ing myself  a  Romeo  to  be  worthy  of  her, 
and  to  hear  the  Devils  quote  the  old  pro- 
verb, '  Birds  of  a  feather  flock  together  '  — 
Amen.  — 

Now  let  us  turn  to  the  Seashore.  Believe 
me,  my  dear  Jane,  it  is  a  great  happiness  to 
see  that  you  are  in  this  finest  part  of  the 
year  winning  a  little  enjoyment  from  the 
hard  world.  In  truth,  the  great  Elements 
we  know  of,  are  no  mean  comforters:  the 
open  sky  sits  upon  our  senses  like  a  sapphire 
crown  —  the  Air  is  our  robe  of  state  —  the 
Earth  is  our  throne,  and  the  Sea  a  mighty 
minstrel  playing  before  it  —  able,  like  Da- 
vid's harp,  to  make  such  a  one  as  you  forget 
almost  the  tempest  cares  of  life.  I  have 
found  in  the  ocean's  music,  —  varying  (tho 
self-same)  more  than  the  passion  of  Timo- 
theus,  an  enjoyment  not  to  be  put  into 
words;  and,  'though  inland  far  I  be,'  I 
now  hear  the  voice  most  audibly  while 
pleasing  myself  in  the  idea  of  your  sensa- 
tions. 

is  getting  well  apace,  and  if  you 

have  a  few  trees,  and  a  little  harvesting 
about  you,  I  '11  snap  my  fingers  in  Lucifer's 
eye.  I  hope  you  bathe  too  —  if  you  do  not, 
I  earnestly  recommend  it.  Bathe  thrice  a 
week,  and  let  us  have  no  more  sitting  up 
next  winter.  Which  is  the  best  of  Shak- 
speare's  plays  ?  I  mean  in  what  mood  and 
with  what  accompaniment  do  you  like  the 
sea  best  ?  It  is  very  fine  in  the  morning, 
when  the  sun, 

'  Opening  on  Neptune  with  fair  blessed  beams, 
Turns  into  yellow  gold  his  salt  sea  streams,' 


and  superb  when 

'  The  sun  from  meridian  height 
Illumines  the  depth  of  the  sea, 

And  the  fishes,  beginning  to  sweat, 
Cry  d it !  how  hot  we  shall  be,' 

and  gorgeous,  when  the  fair  planet  hastens 

'  To  his  home 
Within  the  Western  foam.' 

But  don't  you  think  there  is  something 
extremely  fine  after  sunset,  when  there  are 
a  few  white  clouds  about  and  a  few  stars 
blinking  —  when  the  waters  are  ebbing,  and 
the  horizon  a  mystery  ?  This  state  of  things 
has  been  so  fulfilling  to  me  that  I  am 
anxious  to  hear  whether  it  is  a  favourite 
with  you.  So  when  you  and  Marianne  club 
your  letter  to  me  put  in  a  word  or  two 
about  it.  Tell  Dilke 18  that  it  would  be 
perhaps  as  well  if  he  left  a  Pheasant  or 
Partridge  alive  here  and  there  to  keep  up  a 
supply  of  game  for  next  season  —  tell  him 
to  rein  in  if  Possible  all  the  Nimrod  of  his 
disposition,  he  being  a  mighty  hunter  before 
the  Lord  —  of  the  Manor.  Tell  him  to  shoot 
fair,  and  not  to  have  at  the  Poor  devils  in 
a  furrow  —  when  they  are  flying,  he  may 
fire,  and  nobody  will  be  the  wiser. 

Give  my  sincerest  respects  to  Mrs.  Dilke, 
saying  that  I  have  not  forgiven  myself  for 
not  having  got  her  the  little  box  of  medi- 
cine I  promised,  and  that,  had  I  remained 
at  Hampstead  I  would  have  made  precious 
havoc  with  her  house  and  furniture  —  drawn 
a  great  harrow  over  her  garden  —  poisoned 
Boxer  —  eaten  her  clothes-pegs  —  fried  her 
cabbages  —  fricaseed  (how  is  it  spelt  ?) 
her  radishes  —  ragout'd  her  Onions  — 
belaboured  her  beat-root  —  outstripped  her 
scarlet-runners  —  parlez-vous'd  with  her 
french-beans  —  devoured  her  mignon  or 
mignionette  —  metamorphosed  her  bell- 
handles  —  splintered  her  looking-glasses  — 
bullocked  at  her  cups  and  saucers  —  ago- 
nised her  decanters  —  put  old  Phillips  to 
pickle  in  the  brine-tub  —  disorganised  her 
piano  —  dislocated  her  candlesticks  —  emp- 
tied her  wine-bins  in  a  fit  of  despair  — 


TO   JOHN    HAMILTON   REYNOLDS 


267 


turned  out  her  maid  to  grass  —  and  aston- 
ished Brown;  whose  letter  to  her  on  these 
events  I  would  rather  see  than  the  original 
Copy  of  the  Book  of  Genesis.  Should  you 
see  Mr.  W.  D.  remember  me  to  him,  and 
to  little  Robinson  Crusoe,  and  to  Mr.  Snook. 
Poor  Bailey,  scarcely  ever  well,  has  gone 
to  bed,  pleased  that  I  am  writing  to  you. 
To  your  brother  John  (whom  henceforth  I 
shall  consider  as  mine)  and  to  you,  my  dear 
friends,  Marianne  and  Jane,  I  shall  ever 
feel  grateful  for  having  made  known  to  me 
so  real  a  fellow  as  Bailey.  He  delights 
me  in  the  selfish  and  (please  God)  the  dis- 
interested part  of  my  disposition.  If  the 
old  Poets  have  any  pleasure  in  looking 
down  at  the  enjoyers  of  their  works,  their 
eyes  must  bend  with  a  double  satisfaction 
upon  him.  I  sit  as  at  a  feast  when  he  is 
over  them,  and  pray  that  if,  after  my  death, 
any  of  my  labours  should  be  worth  saving, 
they  may  have  so  '  honest  a  chronicler '  as 
Bailey.  Out  of  this,  his  enthusiasm  in  his 
own  pursuit  and  for  all  good  things  is  of 
an  exalte^  kind  —  worthy  a  more  healthful 
frame  and  an  untorn  spirit.  He  must  have 
happy  years  to  come  — '  he  shall  not  die  by 
God.'  ' 

A  letter  from  John  the  other  day  was  a 
chief  happiness  to  me.  I  made  a  little 
mistake  when,  just  now,  I  talked  of  being 
far  inland.  How  can  that  be  when  Endy- 
mion  and  I  are  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea  ? 
whence  I  hope  to  bring  him  in  safety  before 
you  leave  the  seaside;  and,  if  I  can  so  con- 
trive it,  you  shall  be  greeted  by  him  upon 
the  sea-sands,  and  he  shall  tell  you  all  his 
adventures,  which  having  finished,  he  shall 
thus  proceed  — '  My  dear  Ladies,  favourites 
of  my  gentle  mistress,  however  my  friend 
Keats  may  have  teased  and  vexed  you,  be- 
lieve me  he  loves  you  not  the  less  —  for 
instance,  I  am  deep  in  his  favour,  and  yet 
he  has  been  hauling  me  through  the  earth 
and  sea  with  unrelenting  perseverance.  I 
know  for  all  this  that  he  is  mighty  fond  of 
me,  by  his  contriving  me  all  sorts  of  plea- 
sures. Nor  is  this  the  least,  fair  ladies,  this 


one  of  meeting  you  on  the  desert  shore,  and 
greeting  you  in  his  name.  He  sends  you 
moreover  this  little  scroll  — '  My  dear 
Girls,  I  send  you,  per  favour  of  Endymion, 
the  assurance  of  my  esteem  for  you,  and  my 
utmost  wishes  for  your  health  and  pleasure, 
being  ever, 

Your  affectionate  Brother  JOHN  KEATS. 


14.      TO  JOHN  HAMILTON  REYNOLDS 

Oxford,  Sunday  Morn  [September  21, 1817]. 

MY  DEAR  REYNOLDS  —  So  you  are  deter- 
mined to  be  my  mortal  foe  —  draw  a  Sword 
at  me,  and  I  will  forgive  —  Put  a  Bullet  in 
my  Brain,  and  I  will  shake  it  out  as  a  dew- 
drop  from  the  Lion's  Mane  —  put  me  on  a 
Gridiron,  and  I  will  fry  with  great  com- 
placency —  but  —  oh,  horror !  to  come  upon 
me  in  the  shape  of  a  Dun  !  Send  me  bills! 
as  I  say  to  my  Tailor,  send  me  Bills  and 
I  '11  never  employ  you  more.  However, 
needs  must,  when  the  devil  drives :  and  for 
fear  of  'before  and  behind  Mr.  Honey- 
comb' I'll  proceed.  I  have  not  time  to 
elucidate  the  forms  and  shapes  of  the  grass 
and  trees;  for,  rot  it!  I  forgot  to  bring  my 
mathematical  case  with  me,  which  unfortu- 
nately contained  my  triangular  Prism  so 
that  the  hues  of  the  grass  cannot  be  dis- 
sected for  you  — 

For  these  last  five  or  six  days,  we  have 
had  regularly  a  Boat  on  the  Isis,  and  ex- 
plored all  the  streams  about,  which  are 
more  in  number  than  your  eye-lashes.  We 
sometimes  skim  into  a  Bed  of  rushes,  and 
there  become  naturalised  river-folks,  — 
there  is  one  particularly  nice  nest,  which  we 
have  christened  « Reynolds's  Cove,'  in  which 
we  have  read  Wordsworth  and  talked  as  may 
be.  I  think  I  see  you  and  Hunt  meeting 
in  the  Pit.  —  What  a  very  pleasant  fellow 
he  is,  if  he  would  give  up  the  sovereignty 
of  a  Room  pro  bono.  What  Evenings  we 
might  pass  with  him,  could  we  have  him 
from  Mrs.  H.  Failings  I  am  always  rather 
rejoiced  to  find  in  a  man  than  sorry  for; 


268 


LETTERS   OF   JOHN   KEATS 


they  bring  us  to  a  Level.  He  has  them,  but 
then  his  makes -up  are  very  good.  He 
agrees  with  the  Northern  Poet 14  in  this, 
'  He  is  not  one  of  those  who  much  delight 
to  season  their  fireside  with  personal  talk ' 
—  I  must  confess  however  having  a  little 
itch  that  way,  and  at  this  present  moment 
I  have  a  few  neighbourly  remarks  to  make. 
The  world,  and  especially  our  England, 
has,  within  the  last  thirty  years,  been  vexed 
and  teased  by  a  set  of  Devils,  whom  I  de- 
test so  much  that  I  almost  hunger  after  an 
Acherontic  promotion  to  a  Torturer,  pur- 
posely for  their  accommodation.  These 
devils  are  a  set  of  women,  who  having 
taken  a  snack  or  Luncheon  of  Literary 
scraps,  set  themselves  up  for  towers  of 
Babel  in  languages,  Sapphos  in  Poetry, 
Euclids  in  Geometry,  and  everything  in 
nothing.  Among  such  the  name  of  Mon- 
tague has  been  preeminent.  The  thing  has 
made  a  very  uncomfortable  impression  on 
me.  I  had  longed  for  some  real  feminine 
Modesty  in  these  things,  and  was  therefore 
gladdened  in  the  extreme  on  opening  the 
other  day,  one  of  Bailey's  Books  —  a  book 
of  poetry  written  by  one  beautiful  Mrs. 
Philips,  a  friend  of  Jeremy  Taylor's,  and 
called  '  The  Matchless  Orinda  — '  You  must 
have  heard  of  her,  and  most  likely  read  her 
Poetry  —  I  wish  you  have  not,  that  I  may 
have  the  pleasure  of  treating  you  with  a 
few  stanzas  —  I  do  it  at  a  venture  —  You 
will  not  regret  reading  them  once  more. 
The  following,  to  her  friend  Mrs.  M.  A.  at 
parting,  you  will  judge  of. 

I  have  examin'd  and  do  find, 

Of  all  that  favour  me 
There 's  none  I  grieve  to  leave  behind 

But  only,  only  thee. 
To  part  with  thee  I  needs  must  die, 
Could  parting  sep'rate  thee  and  I. 

But  neither  Chance  nor  Complement 

Did  element  our  Love  ; 
'T  was  sacred  sympathy  was  lent 

Us  from  the  Quire  above. 
That  Friendship  Fortune  did  create, 
Still  fears  a  wound  from  Time  or  Fate. 


Our  chang'd  and  mingled  Souls  are  grown 

To  such  acquaintance  now, 
That  if  each  would  resume  their  own, 

Alas !  we  know  not  how. 
We  have  each  other  so  engrost, 
That  each  is  in  the  Union  lost. 

And  thus  we  can  no  Absence  know, 

Nor  shall  we  be  confin'd ; 
Our  active  Souls  will  daily  go 

To  learn  each  others  mind. 
Nay,  should  we  never  meet  to  Sense, 
Our  Souls  would  hold  Intelligence. 

Inspired  with  a  Flame  Divine 

I  scorn  to  court  a  stay  ; 
For  from  that  noble  Soul  of  thine 

I  ne're  can  be  away. 
But  I  shall  weep  when  thou  dost  grieve  ; 
Nor  can  I  die  whil'st  thou  dost  live. 

By  my  own  temper  I  shall  guess 

At  thy  felicity, 
And  only  like  my  happiness 

Because  it  pleaseth  thee. 
Our  hearts  at  any  time  will  tell 
If  thou,  or  I,  be  sick,  or  well. 

All  Honour  sure  I  must  pretend, 
1  A  complete       All  that  is  good  or  great ; 
friend.     This  She  that  would  be  Rosania's  Friend 
veTy  odd?y  to      M™t  be  at  least  compleaU 
me  at  first.      If  I  have  any  bravery, 

'T  is  cause  1  have  so  much  of  thee, 

Thy  Leiger  Soul  in  me  shall  lie, 

And  all  thy  thoughts  reveal ; 
Then  back  again  with  mine  shall  flie, 

And  thence  to  me  shall  steal. 
Thus  still  to  one  another  tend  ; 
Such  is  the  sacred  name  of  Friend. 

Thus  our  twin-Souls  in  one  shall  grow, 
And  teach  the  World  new  Love, 

Redeem  the  Age  and  Sex,  and  show 
A  Flame  Fate  dares  not  move : 

And  courting  Death  to  be  our  friend, 

Our  Lives  together  too  shall  end. 

A  Dew  shall  dwell  upon  our  Tomb 

Of  such  a  quality, 
That  fighting  Armies,  thither  come, 

Shall  reconciled  be. 
We  '11  ask  no  Epitaph,  but  say 
Orinda  and  Rosania. 

In  other  of  her  poems  there  is  a  most 
delicate  fancy  of  the  Fletcher  kind  —  which 


TO   BENJAMIN   ROBERT   HAYDON 


269 


we  will  con  over  together.  So  Haydon  is 
in  Town.  I  had  a  letter  from  him  yester- 
day. We  will  contrive  as  the  winter  comes 
on  —  but  that  is  neither  here  nor  there. 
Have  you  heard  from  Rice  ?  Has  Martin 
met  with  the  Cumberland  Beggar,  or  been 
wondering  at  the  old  Leech-gatherer  ?  Has 
he  a  turn  for  fossils  ?  that  is,  is  he  capable 
of  sinking  up  to  his  Middle  in  a  Morass  ? 
How  is  Hazlitt?  We  were  reading  his 
Table 15  last  night.  I  know  he  thinks  him- 
self not  estimated  by  ten  people  in  the 
world  —  I  wish  he  knew  he  is.  I  am  get- 
ting on  famous  with  my  third  Book  —  have 
written  800  lines  thereof,  and  hope  to  finish 
it  next  Week.  Bailey  likes  what  I  have 
done  very  much.  Believe  me,  my  dear  Rey- 
nolds, one  of  my  chief  layings-tip  is  the 
pleasure  I  shall  have  in  showing  it  to  you, 
I  may  now  say,  in  a  few  days.  I  have 
heard  twice  from  my  Brothers,  they  are 
going  on  very  well,  and  send  their  Remem- 
brances to  you.  We  expected  to  have  had 
notices  from  little-Hampton  this  morning 
—  we  must  wait  till  Tuesday.  I  am  glad  of 
their  Days  with  the  Dilkes.  You  are,  I 
know,  very  much  teased  in  that  precious 
London,  and  want  all  the  rest  possible;  so  I 
shall  be  contented  with  as  brief  a  scrawl  — 
a  Word  or  two,  till  there  comes  a  pat  hour. 

Send  us  a  few  of  your  stanzas  to  read  in 
'Reynolds's  Cove.'  Give  my  Love  and 
respects  to  your  Mother,  and  remember  me 
kindly  to  all  at  home. 

Yours  faithfully  JOHN  KEATS. 

I  have  left  the  doublings  for  Bailey,  who 
is  going  to  say  that  he  will  write  to  you  to- 
morrow. 


15.      TO  THE   SAME 

[Oxford,  September,  1817.] 

Wordsworth  sometimes,  though  in  a  fine 
way,  gives  us  sentences  in  the  style  of 
school  exercises.  —  For  instance, 

The  lake  doth  glitter, 
Small  birds  twitter. 


Now  I  think  this  is  an  excellent  method  of 
giving  a  very  clear  description  of  an  in- 
teresting place  such  as  Oxford  is. 

[Here  follows  the  verses  on  Oxford,  given  on 
p.  252.] 

16.   TO  BENJAMIN  ROBERT  HAYDON 

Oxford,  September  28  [1817]. 
MY  DEAR  HAYDON  —  I  read  your  letter 
to  the  young  Man,  whose  Name  is  Cripps. 
He  seemed  more  than  ever  anxious  to  avail 
himself  of  your  offer.  I  think  I  told  you 
we  asked  him  to  ascertain  his  Means.  He 
does  not  possess  the  Philosopher's  stone  — 
nor  Fortunatus's  purse,  nor  Gyges's  ring 

—  but  at  Bailey's  suggestion,  whom  I  as- 
sure you  is  very  capital   fellow,  we   have 
stummed  up  a  kind  of  contrivance  whereby 
he  will  be  enabled  to  do  himself  the  benefits 
you  will  lay  in  his  Path.     I  have  a  great 
Idea  that  he  will  be  a  tolerable  neat  brush. 
'Tis  perhaps  the  finest  thing  that  will  befal 
him  this  many  a  year:  for  he  is  just  of  an 
age   to  get  grounded  in   bad  habits  from 
which  you  will  pluck  him.     He  brought  a 
copy  of  Mary  Queen  of  Scots:   it  appears 
to  me  that  he  has  copied  the  bad  style  of 
the  painting,  as  well  as  coloured  the  eye- 
balls yellow  like  the  original.     He  has  also 
the   fault   that  you  pointed  out  to  me  in 
Hazlitt  on  the  constringing  and  diffusing  of 
substance.     However  I  really  believe  that 
he  will  take  fire  at  the  sight  of  your  Picture 

—  and   set   about   things.     If   he   can  get 
ready  in  time  to  return  to  town  with  me, 
which  will  be  in  a  few  days  —  I  will  bring 
him  to  you.     You  will  be  glad  to  hear  that 
within  these  last  three  weeks  I  have  written 
1000  lines  —  which  are  the  third  Book  of 
my  Poem.     My  Ideas  with  respect  to  it  I 
assure   you   are   very  low  —  and  I  would 
write  the  subject  thoroughly  again  —  but  I 
am  tired  of  it  and  think  the  time  would 
be  better  spent  in  writing  a  new  Romance 
which  I  have  in  my  eye  for  next  summer  — 
Rome  was  not  built  in  a  Day  —  and  all  the 
good  I  expect  from  my  employment  this 


270 


LETTERS   OF  JOHN    KEATS 


summer  is  the  fruit  of  Experience  which  I 
hope  to  gather  in  my  next  Poem.     Bailey's 
kindest  wishes,  and  my  vow  of  being 
Yours  eternally  JOHN  KEATS. 


17.      TO     BENJAMIN  BAILEY 

Hampstead,  Wednesday  [October  8, 1817]. 

MY  DEAR  BAILEY  —  After  a  tolerable 
journey,  I  went  from  Coach  to  Coach  as  far 
as  Hampstead  where  I  found  my  Brothers 
—  the  next  Morning  finding  myself  toler- 
ably well  I  went  to  Lamb's  Conduit  Street 
and  delivered  your  parcel.  Jane  and  Ma- 
rianne were  greatly  improved.  Marianne 
especially,  she  has  no  unhealthy  plumpness 
in  the  face,  but  she  comes  me  healthy  and 
angular  to  the  chin  —  I  did  not  see  John  — 
I  was  extremely  sorry  to  hear  that  poor 
Rice,  after  having  had  capital  health  during 
his  tour,  was  very  ill.  I  daresay  you  have 
heard  from  him.  From  No.  19  I  went  to 
Hunt's  and  Hay  don's  who  live  now  neigh- 
bours. —  Shelley  was  there  —  I  know  no- 
thing about  anything  in  this  part  of  the 
world  —  every  Body  seems  at  Loggerheads. 
There  's  Hunt  infatuated  —  there 's  Hay- 
don's  picture  in  statu  quo  —  There  's  Hunt 
walks  up  and  down  his  painting  room 
criticising  every  head  most  unmercifully. 
There  's  Horace  Smith  tired  of  Hunt.  « The 
web  of  our  life  is  of  mingled  yarn.'  Hay- 
don  having  removed  entirely  from  Marl- 
borough  Street,  Cripps  must  direct  his 
letter  to  Lisson  Grove,  North  Paddington. 
Yesterday  Morning  while  I  was  at  Brown's, 
in  came  Reynolds,  he  was  pretty  bobbish, 
we  had  a  pleasant  day  —  he  would  walk 
home  at  night  that  cursed  cold  distance. 
Mrs.  Bentley's  children  are  making  a 
horrid  row  —  whereby  I  regret  I  cannot 
be  transported  to  your  Room  to  write  to 
you.  I  am  quite  disgusted  with  literary 
men  and  will  never  know  another  except 
Wordsworth  —  no  not  even  Byron.  Here 
is  an  instance  of  the  friendship  of  such. 


Haydon  and  Hunt  have  known  each  other 
many  years  —  now  they  live,  pour  ainsi 
dire,  jealous  neighbours  —  Haydon  says  to 
me,  Keats,  don't  show  your  lines  to  Hunt 
on  any  Account,  or  he  will  have  done  half 
for  you  —  so  it  appears  Hunt  wishes  it  to 
be  thought.  When  he  met  Reynolds  in  the 
Theatre,  John  told  him  that  I  was  getting 
on  to  the  completion  of  4000  lines  —  Ah  ! 
says  Hunt,  had  it  not  been  for  me  they 
would  have  been  7000  !  If  he  will  say 
this  to  Reynolds,  what  would  he  to  other 
people  ?  Haydon  received  a  Letter  a  little 
while  back  on  this  subject  from  some  Lady 

—  which  contains  a  caution  to  me,  through 
him,  on  the  subject  —  now  is  not  all  this  a 
most  paltry  thing  to  think  about  ?     You 
may  see  the  whole  of  the  case  by  the  follow- 
ing Extract  from  a  Letter  I  wrote  to  George 
in  the  Spring  — « As  to  what  you  say  about 
my  being  a  Poet,  I  can  return  no  Answer 
but  by  saying  that  the  high  Idea  I  have 
of  poetical  fame  makes  me  think  I  see  it 
towering  too  high  above  me.     At  any  rate, 
I  have   no  right   to   talk  until   Endymion 
is  finished  —  it  will    be  a  test,  a  trial  of 
my  Powers  of  Imagination,  and  chiefly  of 
my  invention,  which  is  a  rare  thing  indeed 

—  by   which   I   must  make  4000  lines  of 
one  bare  circumstance,  and  fill  them  with 
poetry:  and  when  I  consider  that  this  is  a 
great  task,  and  that  when  done  it  will  take 
me  but  a  dozen  paces  towards  the  temple 
of  fame  —  it  makes  me  say  —  God  forbid 
that  I  should  be  without  such  a  task  !     I 
have  heard  Hunt  say,  and  I  may  be  asked 

—  why  endeavour  after  a  long  Poem  ?     To 
which  I  should  answer,  Do  not  the  Lovers 
of   Poetry  like  to  have  a  little  Region  to 
wander  in,  where  they  may  pick  and  choose, 
and  in  which  the  images  are  so  numerous 
that  many  are  forgotten  and  found  new  in 
a  second  Reading:  which  may  be  food  for 
a  Week's  stroll  in  the  Summer  ?     Do  not 
they  like   this  better  than  what  they  can 
read  through  before  Mrs.  Williams  comes 
down  stairs  ?  a  Morning  work  at  most. 


TO    BENJAMIN    BAILEY 


271 


'  Besides,  a  long  poem  is  a  test  of  inven- 
tion, which  I  take  to  be  the  Polar  star  of 
Poetry,  as  Fancy  is  the  Sails  —  and  Imagi- 
nation the  rudder.  Did  our  great  Poets 
ever  write  short  Pieces  ?  I  mean  in  the 
shape  of  Tales  —  this  same  invention  seems 
indeed  of  late  years  to  have  been  for- 
gotten as  a  Poetical  excellence  —  But 
enough  of  this,  I  put  on  no  Laurels  till  I 
shall  have  finished  Endymion,  and  I  hope 
Apollo  is  not  angered  at  my  having  made  a 
Mockery  at  him  at  Hunt's  '  — 

You  see,  Bailey,  how  independent  my 
Writing  has  been.  Hunt's  dissuasion  was 
of  no  avail  —  I  refused  to  visit  Shelley  that 
I  might  have  my  own  unfettered  scope ;  — 
and  after  all,  I  shall  have  the  Reputa- 
tion of  Hunt's  e'leve.  His  corrections  and 
amputations  will  by  the  knowing  ones  be 
traced  in  the  Poem.  This  is,  to  be  sure, 
the  vexation  of  a  day,  nor  would  I  say  so 
many  words  about  it  to  any  but  those  whom 
I  know  to  have  my  welfare  and  reputation 
at  heart.  Haydon  promised  to  give  direc- 
tions for  those  Casts,  and  you  may  expect 
to  see  them  soon,  with  as  many  Letters  — 
You  will  soon  hear  the  dinning  of  Bells 
—  never  mind  !  you  and  Gleig  16  will  defy 
the  foul  fiend  —  But  do .  not  sacrifice  your 
health  to  Books :  do  take  it  kindly  and  not 
so  voraciously.  I  am  certain  if  you  are  your 
own  Physician,  your  Stomach  will  resume 
its  proper  strength  and  then  what  great 
benefits  will  follow.  —  My  sister  wrote  a 
Letter  to  me,  which  I  think  must  be  at  the 
post-office  —  Ax  Will  to  see.  My  Brother's 
kindest  remembrances  to  you  —  we  are 
going  to  dine  at  Brown's  where  I  have  some 
hopes  of  meeting  Reynolds.  The  little 
Mercury  I  have  taken  has  corrected  the 
poison  and  improved  my  health  —  though  I 
feel  from  my  employment  that  I  shall  never 
be  again  secure  in  Robustness.  Would  that 
you  were  as  well  as 

Your  Sincere  friend  and  brother 

JOHN  KEATS. 


18.      TO   THE   SAME 

[Hampstead :  about  November  1,  1817.] 
MY  DEAR  BAILEY  —  So  you  have  got  a 
Curacy  —  good,  but  I  suppose  you  will  be 
obliged  to  stop  among  your  Oxford  favour- 
ites during  Term  time.  Never  mind. 
When  do  you  preach  your  first  sermon  ?  — 
tell  me,  for  I  shall  propose  to  the  two 
R.'s 17  to  hear  it,  —  so  don't  look  into  any 
of  the  old  corner  oaken  pews,  for  fear  of 
being  put  out  by  us.  Poor  Johnny  Moultrie 
can't  be  there.  He  is  ill,  I  expect  —  but 
that 's  neither  here  nor  there.  All  I  can 
say,  I  wish  him  as  well  through  it  as  I  am 
like  to  be.  For  this  fortnight  I  have  been 
confined  at  Hampstead.  Saturday  evening 
was  my  first  day  in  town,  when  I  went  to 
Rice's  —  as  we  intend  to  do  every  Saturday 
till  we  know  not  when.  We  hit  upon  an  old 
gent  we  had  known  some  few  years  ago,  and 
had  a  veiry  pleasante  daye.  In  this  world 
there  is  no  quiet,  —  nothing  but  teasing  and 
snubbing  and  vexation.  My  brother  Tom 
looked  very  unwell  yesterday,  and  I  am  for 
shipping  him  off  to  Lisbon.  Perhaps  I  ship 
there  with  him.  I  have  not  seen  Mrs.  Rey- 
nolds since  I  left  you,  wherefore  my  con- 
science smites  me.  I  think  of  seeing  her 
tomorrow;  have  you  any  message  ?  I  hope 
Gleig  came  soon  after  I  left.  I  don't  sup- 
pose I've  written  as  many  lines  as  you 
have  read  volumes,  or  at  least  chapters, 
since  I  saw  you.  However,  I  am  in  a  fair 
way  now  to  come  to  a  conclusion  in  at  least 
three  weeks,  when  I  assure  you  I  shall  be 
glad  to  dismount  for  a  month  or  two  ;  al- 
though I  '11  keep  as  tight  a  rein  as  possible 
till  then,  nor  suffer  myself  to  sleep.  I  will 
copy  for  you  the  opening  of  the  Fourth 
Book,  in  which  you  will  see  from  the  man- 
ner I  had  not  an  opportunity  of  mention- 
ing any  poets,  for  fear  of  spoiling  the  effect 
of  the  passage  by  particularising  them. 

Thus  far  had  I  written  when  I  received 
your  last,  which  made  me  at  the  sight  of 
the  direction  caper  for  despair;  but  for  one 


272 


LETTERS   OF   JOHN   KEATS 


thing  I  am  glad  that  I  have  been  neglect- 
ful, and  that  is,  therefrom  I  have  received 
a  proof  of  your  utmost  kindness,  which  at 
this  present  I  feel  very  much,  and  I  wish  I 
had  a  heart  always  open  to  such  sensations ; 
but  there  is  no  altering  a  man's  nature,  and 
mine  must  be  radically  wrong,  for  it  will 
lie  dormant  a  whole  month.  This  leads  me 
to  suppose  that  there  are  no  men  thoroughly 
wicked,  so  as  never  to  be  self-spiritualised 
into  a  kind  of  sublime  misery;  but,  alas! 
't  is  but  for  an  hour.  He  is  the  only  Man 
'who  has  kept  watch  on  man's  mortality,' 
who  has  philanthropy  enough  to  overcome 
the  disposition  to  an  indolent  enjoyment  of 
intellect,  who  is  brave  enough  to  volunteer 
for  uncomfortable  hours.  You  remember 
in  Hazlitt's  essay  on  commonplace  people 
he  says,  'they  read  the  Edinburgh  and 
Quarterly,  and  think  as  they  do.'  Now, 
with  respect  to  Wordsworth's  'Gipsy,'  I 
think  he  is  right,  and  yet  I  think  Hazlitt 
is  right,  and  yet  I  think  Wordsworth  is 
Tightest.  If  Wordsworth  had  not  been  idle, 
he  had  not  been  without  his  task;  nor  had 
the  '  Gipsies '  —  they  in  the  visible  world 
had  been  as  picturesque  an  object  as  he  in 
the  invisible.  The  smoke  of  their  fire,  their 
attitudes,  their  voices,  were  all  in  harmony 
with  the  evenings.  It  is  a  bold  thing  to  say 

—  and  I  would  not  say  it  in  print  —  but 
it  seems    to  me  that  if   Wordsworth  had 
thought  a  little  deeper  at  that  moment,  he 
would  not  have  written  the  poem  at  all.     I 
should  judge  it  to  have  been  written  in  one 
of  the  most  comfortable  moods  of  his  life 

—  it  is  a  kind  of  sketchy  intellectual  land- 
scape, not  a  search  after  truth,  nor  is  it  fair 
to  attack  him  on  such  a  subject ;  for  it  is 
with  the  critic  as  with  the  poet;  had  Haz- 
litt thought  a  little  deeper,  and  been  in  a 
good  temper,  he  would  never  have  spied 
out  imaginary  faults  there.     The  Sunday 
before  last  I  asked  Haydon  to  dine  with 
me,  when  I  thought  of  settling  all  matters 
with  him,  in  regard  to  Cripps,  and  let  you 
feuow  about  it.     Now,  although  I  engaged 
him  a  fortnight  before,  he  sent  illness  as  an 


excuse.  He  never  will  come.  I  have  not 
been  well  enough  to  stand  the  chance  of  a 
wet  night,  and  so  have  not  seen  him,  nor 
been  able  to  expurgatorise  more  masks  for 
you;  but  I  will  not  speak  —  your  speakers 
are  never  doers.  Then  Reynolds,  — every 
time  I  see  him  and  mention  you,  he  puts 
his  hand  to  his  head  and  looks  like  a  son  of 
Niobe's  ;  but  he  '11  write  soon. 

Rome,  you  know,  was  not  built  in  a  day. 
I  shall  be  able,  by  a  little  perseverance,  to 
read  your  letters  off-hand.  I  am  afraid 
your  health  will  suffer  from  over  study  be- 
fore your  examination.  I  think  you  might 
regulate  the  thing  according  to  your  own 
pleasure,  —  and  I  would  too.  They  were 
talking  of  your  being  up  at  Christmas. 
Will  it  be  before  you  have  passed  ?  There 
is  nothing,  my  dear  Bailey,  I  should  rejoice 
at  more  than  to  see  you  comfortable,  with 
a  little  Peona  wife;  an  affectionate  wife,  I 
have  a  sort  of  confidence,  would  do  you  a 
great  happiness.  May  that  be  one  of  the 
many  blessings  I  wish  you.  Let  me  be  but 
the  one-tenth  of  one  to  you,  and  I  shall 
think  it  great.  My  brother  George's  kindest 
wishes  to  you.  My  dear  Bailey,  I  am, 

Your  affectionate  friend  JOHN  KEATS. 

I  should  not  like  to  be  pages  in  your 
way;  when  in  a  tolerable  hungry  mood  you 
have  no  mercy.  Your  teeth  are  the  Rock 
Tarpeian  down  which  you  capsize  epic 
poems  like  mad.  I  would  not  for  forty 
shillings  be  Coleridge's  Lays  in  your  way. 
I  hope  you  will  soon  get  through  this  abo- 
minable writing  in  the  schools,  and  be  able 
to  keep  the  terms  with  more  comfort  in  the 
hope  of  retiring  to  a  comfortable  and  quiet 
home  out  of  the  way  of  all  Hopkinses  and 
black  beetles.  When  you  are  settled,  I  will 
come  and  take  a  peep  at  your  church,  your 
house;  try  whether  I  shall  have  grown  too 
lusty  for  my  chair  by  the  fireside,  and  take 
a  peep  at  my  earliest  bower.  A  question  is 
the  best  beacon  towards  a  little  speculation. 
Then  ask  me  after  my  health  and  spirits. 
This  question  ratifies  in  my  mind  what  I 


TO   BENJAMIN    BAILEY 


have  said  above.  Health  and  spirits  can 
only  belong  unalloyed  to  the  selfish  man  — 
the  man  who  thinks  inuch  of  his  fellows 
can  never  be  in  spirits.  You  must  forgive, 
although  I  have  only  written  three  hundred 
lines;  they  would  have  been  five,  but  I 
have  been  obliged  to  go  to  town.  Yester- 
day I  called  at  Lamb's.  St.  Jane  looked 
very  flush  when  I  first  looked  in,  but  was 
much  better  before  I  left. 


19.      TO  THE  SAME 

[Fragment from  an  outside  sheet: 
postmark  London,  November  5,  1817.] 

...  I  will  speak  of  something  else,  or 
my  spleen  will  get  higher  and  higher  — 
and  I  am  a  bearer  of  the  two-edged  sword. 
—  I  hope  you  will  receive  an  answer  from 
Haydon  soon  —  if  not,  Pride  !  Pride  ! 
Pride  !  I  have  received  no  more  subscrip- 
tion —  but  shall  soon  have  a  full  health, 
Liberty  and  leisure  to  give  a  good  part  of 
my  time  to  him.  I  will  certainly  be  in  time 
for  him.  We  have  promised  him  one  year: 
let  that  have  elapsed,  then  do  as  we  think 
proper.  If  I  did  not  know  how  impossible 
it  is,  I  should  say  —  *  do  not  at  this  time 
of  disappointments,  disturb  yourself  about 
others.' 

There  has  been  a  flaming  attack  upon 
Hunt  in  the  Endinburgh  Magazine.  I  never 
read  anything  so  virulent  — accusing  him 
of  the  greatest  Crimes,  depreciating  his 
Wife,  his  Poetry,  his  Habits,  his  Company, 
his  Conversation.  These  Philippics  are  to 
come  out  in  numbers  —  called  *  the  Cockney 
School  of  Poetry.'  There  has  been  but 
one  number  published  —  that  on  Hunt  —  to 
which  they  have  prefixed  a  motto  from  one 
Cornelius  Webb  Poetaster  —  who  unfortu- 
nately was  of  our  party  occasionally  at 
Hampstead  and  took  it  into  his  head  to 
write  the  following,  —  something  about 
'  we  '11  talk  on  Wordsworth,  Byron,  a  theme 
we  never  tire  on;'  and  so  forth  till  he 
eomes  to  Hunt  and  Keats.  In  the  Motto 


they  have  put  Hunt  and  Keats  in  large 
letters  —  I  have  no  doubt  that  the  second 
number  was  intended  for  me:  but  have 
hopes  of  its  non-appearance,  from  the 
following  Advertisement  in  last  Sunday's 
Examiner:—  'To  Z.  —  The  writer  of  the 
Article  signed  Z.,  in  Blackwood's  Edin- 
burgh Magazine  for  October  1817  is  invited 
to  send  his  address  to  the  printer  of  the 
Examiner,  in  order  that  Justice  may  be 
Executed  on  the  proper  person.'  I  don't 
mind  the  thing  much  —  but  if  he  should  go 
to  such  lengths  with  me  as  he  has  done 
with  Hunt,  I  must  infallibly  call  him  to  an 
Account  if  he  be  a  human  being,  and 
appears  in  Squares  and  Theatres,  where  we 
might  possibly  meet  —  I  don't  relish  his 
abuse.  . 


20.      TO  CHARLES  WENTWORTH   DILKE 

[Hampstead,  November  1817.] 
MY  DEAR  DILKE  —  Mrs.  Dilke  or  Mr. 
Wm.  Dilke,  whoever  of  you  shall  receive 
this  present,  have  the  kindness  to  send  pr. 
bearer  Sibylline  Leaves,  and  your  petitioner 
shall  ever  pray  as  in  duty  bound. 

Given  under  my  hand  this  Wednesday 
morning  of  Novr.  1817.       JOHN  KEATS. 
Vivant  Rex  et  Regina —  amen. 


21.      TO  BENJAMIN  BAILEY 

[Burford  Bridge,  November  22,  1817.] 
MY  DEAR  BAILEY —  I  will  get  over  the 
first  part  of  this  (unpaid)  Letter  as  soon  as 
possible,  for  it  relates  to  the  affairs  of  poor 
Cripps.  —  To  a  Man  of  your  nature  such 
a  Letter  as  Haydon's  must  have  been 
extremely  cutting  —  What  occasions  the 
greater  part  of  the  World's  Quarrels  ?  — 
simply  this  —  two  Minds  meet,  and  do  not 
understand  each  other  time  enough  to  pre- 
vent any  shock  or  surprise  at  the  conduct 
of  either  party  —  As  soon  as  I  had  known 
Haydon  three  days,  I  had  got  enough  of  his 
Character  not  to  have  been  surprised  at 


274 


LETTERS   OF   JOHN   KEATS 


such  a  Letter  as  he  has  hurt  you  with. 
Nor,  when  I  knew  it,  was  it  a  principle 
with  me  to  drop  his  acquaintance ;  although 
with  you  it  would  have  been  an  imperious 
feeling.  I  wish  you  knew  all  that  I  think 
about  Genius  and  the  Heart  —  and  yet  I 
think  that  you  are  thoroughly  acquainted 
with  my  innermost  breast  in  that  respect,  or 
you  could  not  have  known  me  even  thus 
long,  and  still  hold  me  worthy  to  be  your 
dear  Friend.  In  passing,  however,  I  must 
say  one  thing  that  has  pressed  upon  me 
lately,  and  increased  my  Humility  and  ca- 
pability of  submission — and  that  is  this 
truth  —  Men  of  Genius  are  great  as  certain 
ethereal  Chemicals  operating  on  the  Mass 
of  neutral  intellect  —  but  they  have  not  any 
individuality,  any  determined  Character  — 
I  would  call  the  top  and  head  of  those  who 
have  a  proper  self  Men  of  Power. 

But  I  am  running  my  head  into  a  subject 
which  I  am  certain  I  could  not  do  justice 
to  under  five  Years'  study,  and  3  vols. 
octavo  —  and,  moreover,  I  long  to  be  talk- 
ing about  the  Imagination  —  so  my  dear 
Bailey,  do  not  think  of  this  unpleasant  affair, 
if  possible  do  not  —  I  defy  any  harm  to 
come  of  it  —  I  defy.  I  shall  write  to  Cripps 
this  week,  and  request  him  to  tell  me  all 
his  goings-on  from  time  to  time  by  Letter 
wherever  I  may  be.  It  will  go  on  well  — 
so  don't  because  you  have  suddenly  dis- 
covered a  Coldness  in  Hay  don  suffer  your- 
self to  be  teased  —  Do  not  my  dear  fellow 
—  Oil  wish  I  was  as  certain  of  the  end  of 
all  your  troubles  as  that  of  your  momentary 
start  about  the  authenticity  of  the  Imagi- 
nation. I  am  certain  of  nothing  but  of 
the  holiness  of  the  Heart's  affections,  and 
the  truth  of  Imagination.  What  the  Imagi- 
nation seizes  as  Beauty  must  be  truth  — 
whether  it  existed  before  or  not,  —  for  I 
have  the  same  idea  of  all  our  passions  as  of 
Love:  they  are  all,  in  their  sublime,  crea- 
tive of  essential  Beauty.  In  a  Word,  you 
may  know  my  favourite  speculation  by  my 
first  Book,  and  the  little  Song 18  I  sent  in 
my  last,  which  is  a  representation  from  the 


fancy  of  the  probable  mode  of  operating  in 
these  Matters.  The  Imagination  may  be 
compared  to  Adam's  dream,  —  he  awoke 
and  found  it  truth :  —  I  am  more  zealous  in 
this  affair,  because  I  have  never  yet  been 
able  to  perceive  how  anything  can  be  known 
for  truth  by  consecutive  reasoning  —  and 
yet  it  must  be.  Can  it  be  that  even  the 
greatest  Philosopher  ever  arrived  at  his 
Goal  without  putting  aside  numerous  objec- 
tions ?  However  it  may  be,  O  for  a  life  of 
Sensations  rather  than  of  Thoughts  !  It  is 
*  a  Vision  in  the  form  of  Youth,'  a  shadow 
of  reality  to  come  —  And  this  consideration 
has  further  convinced  me,  —  for  it  has  come 
as  auxiliary  to  another  favourite  specula- 
tion of  mine,  —  that  we  shall  enjoy  our- 
selves hereafter  by  having  what  we  called 
happiness  on  Earth  repeated  in  a  finer  tone 
—  And  yet  such  a  fate  can  only  befall 
those  who  delight  in  Sensation,  rather 
than  hunger  as  you  do  after  Truth.  Adam's 
dream  will  do  here,  and  seems  to  be  a  Con- 
viction that  Imagination  and  its  empyreal 
reflection,  is  the  same  as  human  life  and  its 
spiritual  repetition.  But,  as  I  was  saying, 
the  Simple  imaginative  Mind  may  have  its 
rewards  in  the  repetition  of  its  own  silent 
Working  coming  continually  on  the  Spirit 
with  a  fine  Suddenness  —  to  compare  great 
things  with  small,  have  you  never  by  being 
surprised  with  an  old  Melody,  in  a  delicious 
place  by  a  delicious  voice,  felt  over  again 
your  very  speculations  and  surmises  at  the 
time  it  first  operated  on  your  soul  ?  —  do 
you  not  remember  forming  to  yourself  the 
Singer's  face  —  more  beautiful  than  it  was 
possible,  and  yet  with  the  elevation  of  the 
Moment  you  did  not  think  so  ?  Even  then 
you  were  mounted  on  the  Wings  of  Imagi- 
nation, so  high  that  the  prototype  must  be 
hereafter  —  that  delicious  face  you  will 
see.  What  a  time  !  I  am  continually  run- 
ning away  from  the  subject.  Sure  this 
cannot  be  exactly  the  Case  with  a  complex 
mind  —  one  that  is  imaginative,  and  at  the 
same  time  careful  of  its  fruits,  —  who  would 
exist  partly  on  Sensation,  partly  on  thought 


TO   JOHN   HAMILTON   REYNOLDS 


275 


—  to  whom  it  is  necessary  that  years  should 
bring  the  philosophic  Mind  ?  Such  a  one  I 
consider  yours,  and  therefore  it  is  neces- 
sary to  your  eternal  happiness  that  you  not 
only  drink  this  old  Wine  of  Heaven,  which 
I  shall  call  the  redigestion  of  our  most 
ethereal  Musings  upon  Earth,  but  also  in- 
crease in  knowledge  and  know  all  things. 
I  am  glad  to  hear  that  you  are  in  a  fair 
way  for  Easter.  You  will  soon  get  through 
your  unpleasant  reading,  and  then  !  —  but 
the  world  is  full  of  troubles,  and  I  have 
not  much  reason  to  think  myself  pestered 
with  many. 

I  think  Jane  or  Marianne  has  a  better 
opinion  of  me  than  I  deserve:  for,  really 
and  truly,  I  do  not  think  my  Brother's  ill- 
ness connected  with  mine  —  you  know  more 
of  the  real  Cause  than  they  do;  nor  have  I 
any  chance  of  being  rack'd  as  you  have 
been.  You  perhaps  at  one  time  thought 
there  was  such  a  thing  as  worldly  happiness 
to  be  arrived  at,  at  certain  periods  of  time 
marked  out,  —  you  have  of  necessity  from 
your  disposition  been  thus  led  away  — 
I  scarcely  remember  counting  upon  any 
Happiness  —  I  look  not  for  it  if  it  be  not 
in  the  present  hour,  —  nothing  startles  me 
beyond  the  moment.  The  Setting  Sun  will 
always  set  me  to  rights,  or  if  a  Sparrow 
come  before  my  Window,  I  take  part  in  its 
existence  and  pick  about  the  gravel.  The 
first  thing  that  strikes  me  on  hearing  a 
Misfortune  having  befallen  another  is  this 

—  « Well,  it  cannot  be  helped:  he  will  have 
the  pleasure  of  trying  the  resources  of  his 
Spirit '  —  and  I  beg  now,  my  dear  Bailey, 
that  hereafter  should  you  observe  anything 
cold  in  me  not  to  put  it  to  the  account  of 
heartlessness,  but  abstraction  —  for  I  assure 
you  I  sometimes  feel  not  the  influence  of  a 
passion  or  aifection  during  a  whole  Week 

—  and  so  long  this  sometimes  continues,  I 
begin  to  suspect  myself,  and  the  genuine- 
ness of  my  feelings  at  other  times  —  think- 
ing them  a  few  barren  Tragedy  Tears. 

My  brother  Tom  is  much  improved  —  he 
is  going  to  Devonshire  —  whither  I  shall 


follow  him.  At  present,  I  am  just  arrived 
at  Dorking  —  to  change  the  Scene  —  change 
the  Air,  and  give  me  a  spur  to  wind  up  my 
Poem,  of  which  there  are  wanting  500  lines. 
I  should  have  been  here  a  day  sooner,  but 
the  Reynoldses  persuaded  me  to  stop  in 
Town  to  meet  your  friend  Christie.19  There 
were  Rice  and  Martin  —  we  talked  about 
Ghosts.  I  will  have  some  Talk  with  Taylor 
I  and  let  you  know,  —  when  please  God  I 
|  come  down  at  Christmas.  I  will  find  that 
Examiner  if  possible.  My  best  regards  to 
Gleig,  my  Brothers'  to  you  and  Mrs. 
Bentley. 

Your  affectionate  Friend  JOHN  KEATS. 
I  want  to  say  much  more  to  you  —  a  few 
hints  will  set  me  going.     Direct  Burford 
Bridge  near  Dorking. 

22.      TO  JOHN  HAMILTON  REYNOLDS 

[Burford  Bridge,]  November  22,  1817. 
MY  DEAR  REYNOLDS  —  There  are  two 
things  which  tease  me  here  —  one  of  them 
Cripps,  and  the  other  that  I  cannot  go  with 
Tom  into  Devonshire.  However,  I  hope 
to  do  my  duty  to  myself  in  a  week  or  so; 
and  then  I  '11  try  what  I  can  do  for  my 
neighbour  —  now,  is  not  this  virtuous  ?  On 
returning  to  Town  I  '11  damm  all  Idleness 
—  indeed,  in  superabundance  of  employ- 
ment, I  must  not  be  content  to  run  here 
and  there  on  little  two-penny  errands,  but 
turn  Rakehell,  i.  e.  go  a  masking,  or  Bailey 
will  think  me  just  as  great  a  Promise 
Keeper  as  he  thinks  you;  for  myself  I  do 
not,  and  do  not  remember  above  one  com- 
plaint against  you  for  matter  o'  that.  Bailey 
writes  so  abominable  a  hand,  to  give  his 
Letter  a  fair  reading  requires  a  little  time: 
so  I  had  not  seen,  when  I  saw  you  last,  his 
invitation  to  Oxford  at  Christmas.  I  '11  go 
with  you.  You  know  how  poorly  Rice  was. 
I  do  not  think  it  was  all  corporeal,  —  bod- 
ily pain  was  not  used  to  keep  him  silent. 
I'll  tell  you  what;  he  was  hurt  at  what 
your  Sisters  said  about  his  joking  with  your 
Mother,  he  was,  soothly  to  sain.  It  will  all 


276 


LETTERS   OF   JOHN   KEATS 


blow  over.  God  knows,  my  dear  Reynolds, 
I  should  not  talk  any  sorrow  to  you  —  you 
must  have  enough  vexations  —  so  I  won't 
any  more.  If  I  ever  start  a  rueful  subject 
in  a  letter  to  you  —  blow  me  !  Why  don't 
you  ?  —  now  I  am  going  to  ask  you  a  very 
silly  Question  neither  you  nor  anybody  else 
could  answer,  under  a  folio,  or  at  least  a 
Pamphlet  —  you  shall  judge  —  why  don't 
you,  as  I  do,  look  unconcerned  at  what  may 
be  called  more  particularly  Heart-vexa- 
tions ?  They  never  surprise  me  —  lord  ! 
a  man  should  have  the  fine  point  of  his 
soul  taken  off  to  become  fit  for  this  world. 
I  like  this  place  very  much.  There  is 
Hill  and  Dale  and  a  little  River.  I  went 
up  Box  hill  this  Evening  after  the  Moon  — 
'  you  a'  seen  the  Moon  '  —  came  down,  and 
wrote  some  lines.  Whenever  I  am  sepa- 
rated from  you,  and  not  engaged  in  a  con- 
tinued Poem,  every  letter  shall  bring  you 
a  lyric  —  but  I  am  too  anxious  for  you  to 
enjoy  the  whole  to  send  you  a  particle. 
One  of  the  three  books  I  have  with  me 
is  Shakspeare's  Poems:  I  never  found  so 
many  beauties  in  the  sonnets  —  they  seem 
to  be  full  of  fine  things  said  unintentionally 
—  in  the  intensity  of  working  out  conceits. 
Is  this  to  be  borne  ?  Hark  ye  ! 

4  When  lofty  trees  I  see  barren  of  leaves, 
Which  erst  from  heat  did  canopy  the  head, 

And  Summer's  green  all  girded  up  in  sheaves, 
Borne  on  the  bier  with  white  and  bristly 


He  has  left  nothing  to  say  about  nothing  or 
anything:  for  look  at  snails  —  you  know 
what  he  says  about  Snails  —  you  know  when 
he  talks  about  '  cockled  Snails '  —  well,  in 
one  of  these  sonnets,  he  says  —  the  chap 
slips  into  —  no  !  I  lie  !  this  is  in  the  Venus 
and  Adonis:  the  simile  brought  it  to  my 
Mind. 

'  As  the  snail,  whose  tender  horns  being  hit, 
Shrinks  back  into  his  shelly  cave  with  pain, 

And  there  all  smothered  up  in  shade  doth  sit, 
Long  after  fearing  to  put  forth  again  ; 

So  at  his  bloody  view  her  eyes  are  fled, 

Into  the  deep  dark  Cabins  of  her  head.' 


He  overwhelms  a  genuine  Lover  of  poesy 
with  all  manner  of  abuse,  talking  about  — 

'  a  poet's  rage 
And  stretched  metre  of  an  antique  song.' 

Which,  by  the  bye,  will  be  a  capital  motto 
for  my  poem,  won't  it  ?  He  speaks  too  of 
'  Time's  antique  pen  '  —  and  '  April's  first- 
born flowers  '  —  and  «  Death's  eternal  cold.' 
—  By  the  Whim-King  !  I  '11  give  you  a 
stanza,  because  it  is  not  material  in  connec- 
tion, and  when  I  wrote  it  I  wanted  you  — 
to  give  your  vote,  pro  or  con.  — 

[Here  follow  lines  581-590,  Book  IV.  of 
Endymion.] 

...  I  see  there  is  an  advertisement  in  the 
Chronicle  to  Poets  —  he  is  so  over-loaded 
with  poems  on  the  '  late  Princess.'  I  suppose 
you  do  not  lack  —  send  me  a  few  —  lend 
me  thy  hand  to  laugh  a  little  —  send  me  a 
little  pullet-sperm,  a  few  finch-eggs  —  and 
remember  me  to  each  of  our  card-playing 
Club.  When  you  die  you  will  all  be  turned 
into  Dice,  and  be  put  in  pawn  with  the 
devil:  for  cards,  they  crumble  up  like  any- 
thing. .  .  . 

I  rest  Your  affectionate  friend . 

JOHN  KEATS. 

Give  my  love  to  both  houses  —  hinc  atque 
illinc. 


23.   TO  GEORGE  AND  THOMAS  KEATS 

Hampstead,  December  22,  1817. 
MY  DEAR  BROTHERS  —  I  must  crave 
your  pardon  for  not  having  written  ere 
this.  ...  I  saw  Kean  return  to  the  public 
in  Richard  III.,  and  finely  he  did  it,  and, 
at  the  request  of  Reynolds,  I  went  to  criti- 
cise his  Duke  in  Richd>  —  the  critique  is  in 
to-day's  Champion,  which  I  send  you  with 
the  Examiner,  in  which  you  will  find  very 
proper  lamentation  on  the  obsoletion  of 
Christmas  Gambols  and  pastimes  :  but  it 
was  mixed  up  with  so  much  egotism  of  that 
drivelling  nature  that  pleasure  is  entirely 
lost.  Hone  the  publisher's  trial,  you  must 
find  very  amusing,  and  as  Englishmen  very 


TO   GEORGE   AND   THOMAS   KEATS 


277 


encouraging:  his  Not  Guilty  is  a  thing, 
which  not  to  have  been,  would  have  dulled 
still  more  Liberty's  Emblazoning  —  Lord 
Ellenborough  has  been  paid  in  his  own  coin 
—  Wooler  and  Hone  have  done  us  an 
essential  service.  I  have  had  two  very 
pleasant  evenings  with  Dilke  yesterday  and 
to-day,  and  am  at  this  moment  just  come 
from  him,  and  feel  in  the  humour  to  go  on 
with  this,  begun  in  the  morning,  and  from 
which  he  came  to  fetch  me.  I  spent  Friday 
evening  with  Wells  20  and  went  next  morn- 
ing to  see  Death  on  the  Pale  horse.  It  is  a 
wonderful  picture,  when  West's  age  is  con- 
sidered ;  but  there  is  nothing  to  be  intense 
upon,  no  women  one  feels  mad  to  kiss,  no 
face  swelling  into  reality.  The  excellence 
of  every  art  is  its  intensity,  capable  of 
making  all  disagreeables  evaporate  from 
their  being  in  close  relationship  with  Beauty 
and  Truth  —  Examine  King  Lear,  and  you 
will  find  this  exemplified  throughout;  but 
in  this  picture  we  have  unpleasantness 
without  any  momentous  depth  of  specula- 
tion excited,  in  which  to  bury  its  repulsive- 
ness  —  The  picture  is  larger  than  Christ 
rejected. 

I  dined  with  Haydon  the  Sunday  after 
you  left,  and  had  a  very  pleasant  day.  I 
dined  too  (for  I  have  been  out  too  much 
lately)  with  Horace  Smith  and  met  his  two 
Brothers  with  Hill  and  Kingston  and  one 
Du  Bois,  they  only  served  to  convince  me 
how  superior  humour  is  to  wit,  in  respect  to 
enjoyment  —  These  men  say  things  which 
make  one  start,  without  making  one  feel, 
they  are  all  alike  ;  their  manners  are  alike  ; 
they  all  know  fashionables  ;  they  have  all 
a  mannerism  in  their  very  eating  and 
drinking,  in  their  mere  handling  a  De- 
canter. They  talked  of  Kean  and  his  low 
company  —  would  I  were  with  that  com- 
pany instead  of  yours  said  I  to  myself  ! 
I  know  such  like  acquaintance  will  never 
do  for  me  and  yet  I  am  going  to  Reynolds, 
on  Wednesday.  Brown  and  Dilke  walked 
with  me  and  back  from  the  Christmas  pan- 
tomime. I  had  not  a  dispute,  but  a  dis- 


quisition, with  Dilke  upon  various  subjects; 
several  things  dove-tailed  in  my  mind,  and 
at  once  it  struck  me  what  quality  went  to 
form  a  Man  of  Achievement,  especially  in 
Literature,  and  which  Shakspeare  possessed 
so  enormously  —  I  mean  Negative  Capabil- 
ity, that  is,  when  a  man  is  capable  of  being 
in  uncertainties,  mysteries,  doubts,' without 
any  irritable  reaching  after  fact  and  rea- 
son. Coleridge,  for  instance,  would  let  go 
by  a  fine  isolated  verisimilitude  caught 
from  the  Penetralium  of  mystery,  from 
being  incapable  of  remaining  content  with 
half -knowledge.  This  pursued  through  vol- 
umes would  perhaps  take  us  no  further  than 
this,  that  with  a  great  poet  the  sense  of 
Beauty  overcomes  every  other  considera- 
tion, or  rather  obliterates  all  consideration. 
Shelley's  poem21  is  out  and  there  are 
words  about  its  being  objected  to,  as  much 
as  Queen  Mab  was.  Poor  Shelley  I  think 
he  has  his  Quota  of  good  qualities,  in  sootb 
la  !  Write  soon  to  your  most  sincere  friend 
and  affectionate  Brother 

JOHN. 


24.     TO   THE  SAME 

Featherstone  Buildings, 

Monday  [January  5,  1818}. 
MY  DEAR  BROTHERS  —  I  ought  to  have 
written  before,  and  you  should  have  had  a 
long  letter  last  week,  but  I  undertook  the 
Champion  for  Reynolds,  who  is  at  Exeter. 
I  wrote  two  articles,  one  on  the  Drury  Lane 
Pantomime,  the  other  on  the  Co  vent  Garden 
new  Tragedy,22  which  they  have  not  put 
in;  the  one  they  have  inserted  is  so  badly 
punctuated  that  you  perceive  I  am  deter- 
mined never  to  write  more,  without  some 
care  in  that  particular.  Wells  tells  me 
that  you  are  licking  your  chops,  Tom,  in 
expectation  of  my  book  coming  out.  I  am 
sorry  to  say  I  have  not  begun  my  correc- 
tions yet :  to-morrow  I  set  out.  I  called 
on  Sawrey  this  morning.  He  did  not  seem 
to  be  at  all  put  out  at  anything  I  said  and 
the  inquiries  I  made  with  regard  to  your 


LETTERS    OF   JOHN    KEATS 


spitting  of  blood,  and  moreover  desired  me 
to  ask  you  to  send  him  a  correct  account  of 
all  your  sensations  and  symptoms  concern- 
ing the  palpitation  and  the  spitting  and  the 
cough  —  if  you  have  any.  Your  last  letter 
gave  me  a  great  pleasure,  for  I  think  the 
invalid  is  in  a  better  spirit  there  along  the 
Edge;  and  as  for  George,  I  must  immedi- 
ately, now  I  think  of  it,  correct  a  little  mis- 
conception of  a  part  of  my  last  letter.  The 
Misses  Reynolds  have  never  said  one  word 
against  me  about  you,  or  by  any  means 
endeavoured  to  lessen  you  in  my  estima- 
tion. That  is  not  what  I  referred  to;  but 
the  manner  and  thoughts  which  I  knew 
they  internally  had  towards  you,  time  will 
show.  Wells  and  Severn  dined  with  me 
yesterday.  We  had  a  very  pleasant  day. 
I  pitched  upon  another  bottle  of  claret,  we 
enjoyed  ourselves  very  much;  were  all  very 
witty  and  full  of  Rhymes.  We  played  a 
concert23  from  4  o'clock  till  10  —  drank 
your  healths,  the  Hunts',  and  (N.B.)  seven 
Peter  Pindars.  I  said  on  that  day  the  only 
good  thing  I  was  ever  guilty  of.  We  were 
talking  about  Stephens  and  the  1st  Gallery. 
I  said  I  wondered  that  careful  folks  would 
go  there,  for  although  it  was  but  a  shilling, 
still  you  had  to  pay  through  the  Nose.  I 
saw  the  Peachey  family  in  a  box  at  Drury 
one  night.  I  have  got  such  a  curious  .  .  . 
or  rather  I  had  such,  now  I  am  in  my  own 
hand. 

I  have  had  a  great  deal  of  pleasant  time 
with  Rice  lately,  and  am  getting  initiated 
into  a  little  band.  They  call  drinking  deep 
dyin'  scarlet.  They  call  good  wine  a  pretty 
tipple,  and  call  getting  a  child  knocking  out 
an  apple;  stopping  at  a  tavern  they  call 
hanging  out.  Where  do  you  sup  ?  is  where 
do  you  hang  out  ? 

Thursday  I  promised  to  dine  with  Words- 
worth, and  the  weather  is  so  bad  that  I  am 
undecided,  for  he  lives  at  Mortimer  Street. 
I  had  an  invitation  to  meet  him  at  Kings- 
ton's, but  not  liking  that  place  I  sent  my 
excuse.  What  I  think  of  doing  to-day  is 
to  dine  in  Mortimer  Street  (Wordsth),  and 


sup  here  in  the  Feath8  buildings,  as  Mr. 
Wells  has  invited  me.  On  Saturday,  I 
called  on  Wordsworth  before  he  went  to 
Kingston's,  and  was  surprised  to  find  him 
with  a  stiff  collar.  I  saw  his  spouse,  and  I 
think  his  daughter.  I  forget  whether  I  had 
written  my  last  before  my  Sunday  evening 
at  Haydon's  —  no,  I  did  not,  or  I  should 
have  told  you,  Tom,  of  a  young  man  you 
met  at  Paris,  at  Scott's,  .  .  .  Ritchie.  I 
think  he  is  going  to  Fezan,  in  Africa;  then 
to  proceed  if  possible  like  Mungo  Park. 
He  was  very  polite  to  me,  and  inquired 
very  particularly  after  you.  Then  there  was 
Wordsworth,  Lamb,  Monkhouse,  Landseer, 
Kingston,  and  your  humble  servant.  Lamb 
got  tipsy  and  blew  up  Kingston  —  proceed- 
ing so  far  as  to  take  the  candle  across  the 
room,  hold  it  to  his  face,  and  show  us  what 
a  soft  fellow  he  was.24  I  astonished  Kings- 
ton at  supper  with  a  pertinacity  in  favour 
of  drinking,  keeping  my  two  glasses  at 
work  in  a  knowing  way. 

I  have  seen  Fanny  twice  lately  —  she  in- 
quired particularly  after  you  and  wants  a 
co-partnership  letter  from  you.  She  has 
been  unwell,  but  is  improving.  I  think  she 
will  be  quick.  Mrs.  Abbey  was  saying  that 
the  Keatses  were  ever  indolent,  that  they 
would  ever  be  so,  and  that  it  is  born  in 
them.  Well,  whispered  Fanny  to  me,  if  it 
is  born  with  us,  how  can  we  help  it  ?  She 
seems  very  anxious  for  a  letter.  As  I  asked 
her  what  I  should  get  for  her,  she  said  a 
'Medal  of  the  Princess.'25  I  called  on 
Haslam  —  we  dined  very  snugly  together. 
He  sent  me  a  Hare  last  week,  which  I  sent 
to  Mrs.  Dilke.  Brown  is  not  come  back. 
I  and  Dilke  are  getting  capital  friends.  He 
is  going  to  take  the  Champion.  He  has 
sent  his  farce  to  Covent  Garden.  I  met 
Bob  Harris26  on  the  steps  at  Covent 
Garden;  we  had  a  good  deal  of  curious  chat. 
He  came  out  with  his  old  humble  opinion. 
The  Covent  Garden  pantomime  is  a  very 
nice  one,  but  they  have  a  middling  Harle- 
quin, a  bad  Pantaloon,  a  worse  Clown,  and 
a  shocking  Columbine,  who  is  one  of  the 


TO   BENJAMIN   ROBERT   HAYDON 


279 


Miss  Dennets.  I  suppose  you  will  see  my 
critique  on  the  new  tragedy  in  the  next 
week's  Champion.  It  is  a  shocking  bad 
one.  I  have  not  seen  Hunt;  he  was  out 
when  I  called.  Mrs.  Hunt  looks  as  well  as 
ever  I  saw  her  after  her  confinement. 
There  is  an  article  in  the  se'nnight  Exam- 
iner on  Godwin's  Mandeville,  signed  E. 
K.  —  I  think  it  Miss  Kent's  >27  —  I  will  send 
it.  There  are  fine  subscriptions  going  on 
for  Hone. 

You  ask  me  what  degrees  there  are  be- 
tween Scott's  novels  and  those  of  Smollett. 
They  appear  to  me  to  be  quite  distinct  in 
every  particular,  more  especially  in  their 
aims.  Scott  endeavours  to  throw  so  inter- 
esting and  romantic  a  colouring  into  com- 
mon and  low  characters  as  to  give  them  a 
touch  of  the  sublime.  Smollett  on  the  con- 
trary pulls  down  and  levels  what  with  other 
men  would  continue  romance.  The  grand 
parts  of  Scott  are  within  the  reach  of  more 
minds  than  the  finest  humours  in  Humphrey 
Clinker.  I  forget  whether  that  fine  thing 
of  the  Serjeant  is  Fielding  or  Smollett,  but 
it  gives  me  more  pleasure  than  the  whole 
novel  of  the  Antiquary.  You  must  remem- 
ber what  I  mean.  Some  one  says  to  the 
Serjeant:  « That 's  a  non-sequitur  ! '  —  «  If 
you  come  to  that,'  replies  the  Serjeant, 
'  you  're  another  ! '  — 

I  see  by  Wells's  letter  Mr.  Abbey  ™  does 
not  overstock  you  with  money.  You  must 
write.  I  have  not  seen  .  .  .  yet,  but  expect 
it  on  Wednesday.  I  am  afraid  it  is  gone. 
Severn  tells  me  he  has  an  order  for  some 
drawings  for  the  Emperor  of  Russia. 

You  must  get  well  Tom,  and  then  I  shall 
feel  whole  and  genial  as  the  winter  air. 
Give  me  as  many  letters  as  you  like,  and 
write  to  Sawrey  soon.  I  received  a  short 
letter  from  Bailey  about  Cripps,  and  one 
from  Hay  don,  ditto.  Hay  don  thinks  he 
improved  very  much.  Mrs.  Wells  desires 
particularly  ...  to  Tom  and  her  respects 
to  George,  and  I  desire  no  better  than  to 
be  ever  your  most  affectionate  Brother 

JOHN. 


P.  S.  —  I  had  not  opened  the  Champion 
before  I  found  both  my  articles  in  it. 

I  was  at  a  dance  at  Redhall's,  and  passed 
a  pleasant  time  enough  —  drank  deep,  and 
won  10/6  at  cutting  for  half  guineas.  .  .  . 
Bailey  was  there  and  seemed  to  enjoy  the 
evening.  Rice  said  he  cared  less  about 
the  hour  than  any  one,  and  the  proof  is  his 
dancing  —  he  cares  not  for  time,  dancing  as 
if  he  was  deaf.  Old  Redhall  not  being  used 
to  give  parties,  had  no  idea  of  the  quantity 
of  wine  that  would  be  drank,  and  he  ac- 
tually put  in  readiness  on  the  kitchen  stairs 
eight  dozen. 

Every  one  inquires  after  you,  and  desires 
their  remembrances  to  you. 

Your  Brother  JOHN. 


25.   TO  BENJAMIN  ROBERT  HAYDON 

[Hampstead,]  Saturday  Morn 
[January  10,  1818]. 

MY  DEAR  HAYDON  —  I  should  have 
seen  you  ere  this,  but  on  account  of  my 
sister  being  in  Town:  so  that  when  I  have 
sometimes  made  ten  paces  towards  you, 
Fanny  has  called  me  into  the  City;  and  the 
Christmas  Holydays  are  your  only  time  to 
see  Sisters,  that  is  if  they  are  so  situated  as 
mine.  I  will  be  with  you  early  next  week 
—  to-night  it  should  be,  but  we  have  a  sort 
of  a  Club  every  Saturday  evening  —  to- 
morrow, but  I  have  on  that  day  an  insuper- 
able engagement.  Cripps  has  been  down 
to  me,  and  appears  sensible  that  a  binding 
to  you  would  be  of  the  greatest  advantage 
to  him  —  if  such  a  thing  be  done  it  cannot 
be  before  £150  or  £200  are  secured  in  sub- 
scriptions to  him.  I  will  write  to  Bailey 
about  it,  give  a  Copy  of  the  Subscribers' 
names  to  every  one  I  know  who  is  likely  to 
get  a  £5  for  him.  I  will  leave  a  Copy  at 
Taylor  and  Hessey's,  Rodwell  and  Martin, 
and  will  ask  Kingston  and  Co.  to  cash  up. 

Your  friendship  for  me  is  now  getting 
into  its  teens  —  and  I  feel  the  past.  Also 
every  day  older  I  get  —  the  greater  is  my 
idea  of  your  achievements  in  Art:  and  I 


280 


LETTERS    OF   JOHN    KEATS 


am  convinced  that  there  are  three  things  to 

rejoice  at  in  this  Age  —  The   Excursion, 

Your  Pictures,  and  Hazlitt's  depth  of  Taste. 

Yours  affectionately        JOHN  KEATS. 


26.      TO  JOHN   TAYLOR 

[Hampstead,]  Saturday  Morning 
[January  10,  1818]. 

MY  DEAR  TAYLOR  —  Several  things  have 
kept  me  from  you  lately:  —  first  you  had 
got  into  a  little  hell,  which  I  was  not  anx- 
ious to  reconnoitre  —  secondly,  I  have  made 
a  vow  not  to  call  again  without  my  first 
book:  so  you  may  expect  to  see  me  in  four 
days.  Thirdly,  I  have  been  racketing  too 
much,  and  do  not  feel  over  well.  I  have  seen 
Wordsworth  frequently  —  Dined  with  him 
last  Monday  —  Reynolds,  I  suppose  you 
have  seen.  Just  scribble  me  thus  many 
lines,  to  let  me  know  you  are  in  the  land 
of  the  living,  and  well.  Remember  me  to 
the  Fleet  Street  Household  —  and  should 
you  see  any  from  Percy  Street,  give  my 
kindest  regards  to  them. 

Your  sincere  friend          JOHN  KEATS. 


27.   TO  GEORGE  AND  THOMAS  KEATS 

[Hampstead,]  Tuesday  [January  13, 1818]. 

MY  DEAR  BROTHERS  — I  am  certain  I 
think  of  having  a  letter  to-morrow  morning 
for  I  expected  one  so  much  this  morning, 
having  been  in  town  two  days,  at  the  end 
of  which  my  expectations  began  to  get  up  a 
little.  I  found  two  on  the  table,  one  from 
Bailey  and  one  from  Haydon,  I  am  quite 
perplexed  in  a  world  of  doubts  and  fancies 
—  there  is  nothing  stable  in  the  world; 
uproar  's  your  only  music  —  I  don't  mean 
to  include  Bailey  in  this  and  so  dismiss  him 
from  this  with  all  the  opprobrium  he  de- 
serves —  that  is  in  so  many  words,  he  is 
one  of  the  noblest  men  alive  at  the  present 
day.  In  a  note  to  Haydon  about  a  week 
ago  (which  I  wrote  with  a  full  sense  of 
what  he  had  done,  and  how  he  had  never 
manifested  any  little  mean  drawback  in  his 


value  of  me)  I  said  if  there  were  three 
things  superior  in  the  modern  world,  they 
were  '  the  Excursion,'  '  Haydon's  pictures,' 
and  « Hazlitt's  depth  of  Taste '  —  so  I  do 
believe  —  Not  thus  speaking  with  any  poor 
vanity  that  works  of  genius  were  the  first 
things  in  this  world.  No  !  for  that  sort 
of  probity  and  disinterestedness  which  such 
men  as  Bailey  possess,  does  hold  and  grasp 
the  tiptop  of  any  spiritual  honours  that  can 
be  paid  to  anything  in  this  world  —  And 
moreover  having  this  feeling  at  this  present 
come  over  me  in  its  full  force,  I  sat  down  to 
write  to  you  with  a  grateful  heart,  in  that 
I  had  not  a  Brother  who  did  not  feel  and 
credit  me  for  a  deeper  feeling  and  devotion 
for  his  uprightness,  than  for  any  marks  of 
genius  however  splendid.  I  was  speaking 
about  doubts  and  fancies  —  I  mean  there 
has  been  a  quarrel  of  a  severe  nature  be- 
tween Haydon  and  Reynolds  and  another 
(*  the  Devil  rides  upon  a  fiddlestick ' )  be- 
tween Hunt  and  Haydon  —  the  first  grew 
from  the  Sunday  on  which  Haydon  invited 
some  friends  to  meet  Wordsworth.  Rey- 
nolds never  went,  and  never  sent  any  Notice 
about  it,  this  offended  Haydon  more  than  it 
ought  to  have  done  —  he  wrote  a  very 
sharp  and  high  note  to  Reynolds  and  then 
another  in  palliation  —  but  which  Reynolds 
feels  as  an  aggravation  of  the  first  —  Con- 
sidering all  things,  Haydon's  frequent  neg- 
lect of  his  Appointments,  etc.  his  notes 
were  bad  enough  to  put  Reynolds  on  the 
right  side  of  the  question  —  but  then  Rey- 
nolds has  no  power  of  sufferance;  no  idea 
of  having  the  thing  against  him ;  so  he  an- 
swered Haydon  in  one  of  the  most  cutting 
letters  I  ever  read;  exposing  to  himself  all 
his  own  weaknesses  and  going  on  to  an 
excess,  which  whether  it  is  just  or  no,  is 
what  I  would  fain  have  unsaid,  the  fact 
is,  they  are  both  in  the  right  and  both  in 
the  wrong. 

The  quarrel  with  Hunt  I  understand  thus 
far.  Mrs.  H.  was  in  the  habit  of  borrowing 
silver  of  Haydon  —  the  last  time  she  did 
so,  Haydon  asked  her  to  return  it  at  a 


TO   GEORGE   AND   THOMAS   KEATS 


281 


certain  time  —  she  did  not  —  Haydon  sent 
for  it  —  Hunt  went  to  expostulate  on  the 
indelicacy,  etc.  —  they  got  to  words  and 
parted  for  ever.  All  I  hope  is  at  some 
time  to  bring  them  together  again.  —  Lawk! 
Molly  there  's  been  such  doings  —  Yester- 
day evening  I  made  an  appointment  with 
Wells  to  go  to  a  private  theatre,  and  it 
being  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Drury  Lane, 
and  thinking  we  might  be  fatigued  with 
sitting  the  whole  evening  in  one  dirty  hole, 
I  got  the  Drury  Lane  ticket,  and  therewith 
we  divided  the  evening  with  a  spice  of 
Richard  III 

[Later,  January  19  or  20.] 
Good  Lord  !  I  began  this  letter  nearly  a 
week  ago,  what  have  I  been  doing  since  — 
I  have  been  —  I  mean  not  been  —  sending 
last  Sunday's  paper  to  you.  I  believe  be- 
cause it  was  not  near  me  —  for  I  cannot 
find  it,  and  my  conscience  presses  heavy  on 
me  for  not  sending  it.  You  would  have 
had  one  last  Thursday,  but  I  was  called 
away,  and  have  been  about  somewhere  ever 
since.  Where?  What!  Well  I  rejoice 
almost  that  I  have  not  heard  from  you  be- 
cause no  news  is  good  news.  I  cannot  for 
the  world  recollect  why  I  was  called  away, 
all  I  know  is  that  there  has  been  a  dance  at 
Dilke's,  and  another  at  the  London  Coffee 
House;  to  both  of  which  I  went.  But  I 
must  tell  you  in  another  letter  the  circum- 
stances thereof  —  for  though  a  week  should 
have  passed  since  I  wrote  on  the  other  side 
it  quite  appals  me.  I  can  only  write  in 
scraps  and  patches.  Brown  is  returned 
from  Hampstead.  Haydon  has  returned  an 
answer  in  the  same  style  —  they  are  all 
dreadfully  irritated  against  each  other.  On 
Sunday  I  saw  Hunt  and  dined  with  Hay- 
don, met  Hazlitt  and  Bewick  there,  and 
took  Haslam  with  me  —  forgot  to  speak 
about  Cripps  though  1  broke  my  engage- 
ment to  Haslam's  on  purpose.  Mem.  — 
Haslam  came  to  meet  me,  found  me  at 
Breakfast,  had  the  goodness  to  go  with  me 
my  way  —  I  have  just  finished  the  revision 


of  my  first  book,  and  shall  take  it  to  Tay- 
lor's to-morrow  —  intend  to  persevere  — 
Do  not  let  me  see  many  days  pass  without 
hearing  from  you. 

Your  most  affectionate  Brother  JOHN. 


28.      TO  JOHN  TAYLOR 

[Hampstead,]  Friday  23d  [January  1818]. 

MY  DEAR  TAYLOR  —  I  have  spoken  to 
Haydon  about  the  drawing.  He  would  do 
it  with  all  his  Art  and  Heart  too,  if  so  I 
will  it ;  however,  he  has  written  thus  to 
me  ;  but  I  must  tell  you,  first,  he  intends 
painting  a  finished  Picture  from  the  Poem. 
Thus  he  writes  —  *  When  I  do  anything  for 
your  Poem  it  must  be  effectual  —  an  honour 
to  both  of  us:  to  hurry  up  a  sketch  for  the 
season  won't  do.  I  think  an  engraving  from 
your  head,  from  a  Chalk  drawing  of  mine, 
done  with  all  my  might,  to  which  I  would 
put  my  name,  would  answer  Taylor's  idea 
better  than  the  other.  Indeed,  I  am  sure 
of  it.  This  I  will  do,  and  this  will  be  ef- 
fectual, and  as  I  have  not  done  it  for  any 
other  human  being,  it  will  have  an  effect.' 

What  think  you  of  this  ?  Let  me  hear. 
I  shall  have  my  second  Book  in  readiness 
forthwith. 

Yours  most  sincerely       JOHN  KEAT8. 

If  Reynolds  calls  tell  him  three  lines 
will  be  acceptable,  for  I  am  squat  at  Hamp- 
stead. 


29.   TO  GEORGE  AND  THOMAS  KEATS 

[Hampstead,]  Friday  23d  January  [1818]. 
MY  DEAR  BROTHERS  —  I  was  thinking 
what  hindered  me  from  writing  so  long,  for 
I  have  so  many  things  to  say  to  you,  and 
know  not  where  to  begin.  It  shall  be  upon 
a  thing  most  interesting  to  you,  my  Poem. 
Well !  I  have  given  the  first  Book  to  Tay- 
lor; he  seemed  more  than  satisfied  with  it, 
and  to  my  surprise  proposed  publishing  it 
in  Quarto  if  Haydon  would  make  a  drawing 
of  some  event  therein,  for  a  Frontispiece. 


282 


LETTERS    OF   JOHN    KEATS 


I  called  on  Haydon,  he  said  he  would  do 
anything  I  liked,  but  said  he  would  rather 
paint  a  finished  picture,  from  it,  which  he 
seems  eager  to  do;  this  in  a  year  or  two 
will  be  a  glorious  thing  for  us;  and  it  will 
be,  for  Haydon  is  struck  with  the  1st  Book. 
I  left  Haydon  and  the  next  day  received  a 
letter  from  him,  proposing  to  make,  as  he 
says,  with  all  his  might,  a  finished  chalk 
sketch  of  my  head,  to  be  engraved  in  the 
first  style  and  put  at  the  head  of  my  Poem, 
saying  at  the  same  time  he  had  never  done 
the  thing  for  any  human  being,  and  that  it 
must  have  considerable  effect  as  he  will  put 
his  name  to  it  —  I  begin  to-day  to  copy  my 
2nd  Book  —  « thus  far  into  the  bowels  of 
the  land '  —  You  shall  hear  whether  it  will 
be  Quarto  or  non  Quarto,  picture  or  non 
picture.  Leigh  Hunt  I  showed  my  1st  Book 

to he  allows  it  not  much  merit  as  a 

whole;  says  it  is  unnatural  and  made  ten 
objections  to  it  in  the  mere  skimming  over. 
He  says  the  conversation  is  unnatural  and 
too  high-flown  for  Brother  and  Sister  — 
says  it  should  be  simple  forgetting  do  ye 
mind  that  they  are  both  overshadowed  by 
a  supernatural  Power,  and  of  force  could 
not  speak  like  Francesca  in  the  Rimini.  He 
must  first  prove  that  Caliban's  poetry  is 
unnatural  —  This  with  me  completely  over- 
turns his  objections  —  the  fact  is  he  and 
Shelley  are  hurt,  and  perhaps  justly,  at  my 
not  having  showed  them  the  affair  offi- 
ciously and  from  several  hints  I  have  had 
they  appear  much  disposed  to  dissect  and 
anatomise  any  trip  or  slip  I  may  have  made. 
—  But  who  's  afraid  ?  Ay  !  Tom  !  Demme 
if  I  am.  I  went  last  Tuesday,  an  hour  too 
late,  to  Hazlitt's  Lecture  on  poetry,  got 
there  just  as  they  were  coming  out,  when 
all  these  pounced  upon  me.  Hazlitt,  John 
Hunt  and  Son,  Wells,  Bewick,  all  the 
Landseers,  Bob  Harris,  aye  and  more  — 
the  Landseers  enquired  after  you  partic- 
ularly —  I  know  not  whether  Wordsworth 
has  left  town  —  But  Sunday  I  dined  with 
Hazlitt  and  Haydon,  also  that  I  took  Has- 


lam  with  me  —  I  dined  with  Brown  lately. 
Dilke  having  taken  the  Champion  Theatri- 
cals was  obliged  to  be  in  town  —  Fanny  has 
returned  to  Walthamstow.  —  Mr.  Abbey 
appeared  very  glum,  the  last  time  I  went 
to  see  her,  and  said  in  an  indirect  way,  that 
I  had  no  business  there  —  Rice  has  been  ill, 
but  has  been  mending  much  lately  — 

I  think  a  little  change  has  taken  place  in 
my  intellect  lately  —  I  cannot  bear  to  be 
uninterested  or  unemployed,  I,  who  for  so 
long  a  time  have  been  addicted  to  passive- 
ness.  Nothing  is  finer  for  the  purposes  of 
great  productions  than  a  very  gradual  ripen- 
ing of  the  intellectual  powers.  As  an  in- 
stance of  this  —  observe  —  I  sat  down  yes- 
terday to  read  King  Lear  once  again:  the 
thing  appeared  to  demand  the  prologue  of 
a  sonnet,  I  wrote  it,  and  began  to  read  — 
(I  know  you  would  like  to  see  it.) 

[Here  follows  the  Sonnet,  for  which  see  p. 

40.] 

So  you  see  I  am  getting  at  it,  with  a 
sort  of  determination  and  strength,  though 
verily  I  do  not  feel  it  at  this  moment  — 
this  is  my  fourth  letter  this  morning,  and 
I  feel  rather  tired,  and  my  head  rather 
swimming  —  so  I  will  leave  it  open  till  to- 
morrow's post.  — 

I  am  in  the  habit  of  taking  my  papers 
to  Dilke's  and  copying  there  ;  so  I  chat 
and  proceed  at  the  same  time.  I  have  been 
there  at  my  work  this  evening,  and  the 
walk  over  the  Heath  takes  off  all  sleep,  so 
I  will  even  proceed  with  you.  I  left  off 
short  in  my  last  just  as  I  began  an  account 
of  a  private  theatrical  —  Well  it  was  of  the 
lowest  order,  all  greasy  and  oily,  insomuch 
that  if  they  had  lived  in  olden  times,  when 
signs  were  hung  over  the  doors,  the  only 
appropriate  one  for  that  oily  place  would 
have  been  —  a  guttered  Candle.  They 
played  John  Bull,  The  Review,  and  it  was 
to  conclude  with  Bombastes  Furioso  — I 
saw  from  a  Box  the  first  Act  of  John  Bull, 
then  went  to  Drury  and  did  not  return  till 


TO   BENJAMIN   BAILEY 


283 


it  was  over  —  when  by  Wells's  interest  we 
got  behind  the  scenes  —  there  was  not  a 
yard  wide  all  the  way  round  for  actors, 
scene-shifters,  and  interlopers  to  move  in 

—  for  'Nota  Bene '  the  Green  Room  was 
under  the  stage,  and  there  was  I  threatened 
over  and  over  again  to  be  turned  out  by 
the  oily  scene-shifters,  there  did  I  hear  a 
little  painted  Trollop  own,  very  candidly, 
that  she  had  failed  in  Mary,  with  a  '  damn'd 
if  she  'd  play  a  serious  part  again,  as  long 
as  she  lived,'  and  at  the  same  time  she  was 
habited   as  the  Quaker  in  the  Review. — 
There    was   a   quarrel,    and    a    fat    good- 
natured   looking  girl   in    soldiers'   clothes 
wished  she  had  only  been  a  man  for  Tom's 
sake.    One  fellow  began  a  song,  but  an  un- 
lucky finger-point  from  the  Gallery  sent  him 
off  like  a  shot.     One  chap  was  dressed  to 
kill  for  the   King  in   Bombastes,  and   he 
stood  at  the  edge  of  the  scene  in  the  very 
sweat  of  anxiety  to  show  himself,  but  Alas 
the  thing  was  not   played.     The  sweetest 
morsel  of  the  night  moreover  was,  that  the 
musicians  began  pegging  and  fagging  away 

—  at  an  overture  —  never  did  you  see  faces 
more  in  earnest,  three  times  did  they  play 
it  over,  dropping  all  kinds  of  corrections 
and  still  did  not  the  curtain  go  up.     Well 
then  they  went  into  a  country  dance,  then 
into  a  region  they  well  knew,  into  the  old 
boonsome  Pothouse,  and  then  to  see  how 
pompous  o'  the   sudden  they  turned;  how 
they  looked  about  and  chatted;   how  they 
did  not  care  a  damn ;  was  a  great  treat 

I  hope  I  have  not  tired  you  by  this  filling 
up  of  the  dash  in  my  last.  Constable  the 
bookseller  has  offered  Reynolds  ten  guineas 
a  sheet  to  write  for  his  Magazine  —  it  is  an 
Edinburgh  one,  which  Blackwood's  started 
up  in  opposition  to.  Hunt  said  he  was 
nearly  sure  that  the  '  Cockney  School '  was 
written  by  Scott  ^  so  you  are  right  Tom  ! 

—  There  are  no  more  little  bits  of  news  I 
can  remember  at  present. 

I  remain,  My  dear  Brothers,  Your  very 
affectionate  Brother  JOHN. 


30.      TO  BENJAMIN  BAILEY 

[Hampstead,]  Friday  Jan?-  23  [1818]. 
MY  DEAR  BAILEY  —  Twelve  days  have 
pass'd  since  your  last  reached  me.  —  What 
has  gone  through  the  myriads  of  human: 
minds  since  the  12th  ?  We  talk  of  the  im- 
mense Number  of  Books,  the  Volumes 
ranged  thousands  by  thousands  —  but  per- 
haps more  goes  through  the  human  intelli- 
gence in  Twelve  days  than  ever  was  written. 

—  How  has   that  unfortunate  family   lived 
through  the  twelve  ?      One  saying  of  yours  I 
shall  never  forget  —  you  may  not  recollect 
it  —  it  being  perhaps  said  when  you  were 
looking   on   the    Surface   and   seeming  of 
Humanity  alone,  without  a  thought  of  the 
past  or  the  future  —  or  the  deeps  of  good 
and    evil  —  you    were    at    that    moment 
estranged  from    speculation,  and   I   think 
you   have   arguments  ready  for   the  Man 
who  would  utter  it  to  you  —  this  is  a  for- 
midable preface  for  a  simple  thing  —  merely 
you  said,  '  Why  should  woman  suffer  f '  Aye, 
why  should  she  ?      '  By  heavens  I  'd  coin 
my   very   Soul,    and  drop   my   Blood   for 
Drachmas ! '     These   things  are,   and  he, 
who  feels  how  incompetent  the  most  skyey 
Knight-errantry  is  to  heal  this  bruised  fair- 
ness, is  like  a  sensitive  leaf  on  the  hot  hand 
of    thought.  —  Your    tearing,    my    dear 
friend,  a  spiritless  and  gloomy  letter  up, 
to  re-write  to  me,  is  what  I  shall   never 
forget  —  it  was  to  me  a  real  thing  —  Things 
have  happened  lately  of  great  perplexity 

—  you  must  have  heard  of  them  —  Rey- 
nolds and  Haydon  retorting  and  recrimi- 
nating —  and  parting  for  ever  —  the  same 
thing  has  happened  between  Haydon  and 
Hunt.      It   is   unfortunate  —  Men   should 
bear  with  each  other:  there  lives  not  the 
Man  who  may  not  be  cut  up,  aye  Lashed  to 
pieces  on  his  weakest  side.     The  best  of 
Men  have  but  a  portion  of  good  in  them  — 
a  kind  of  spiritual  yeast  in  their  frames, 
which  creates  the  ferment  of  existence  — 
by  which  a  Man  is  propelled   to  act,  and 
strive,  and  buffet  with  Circumstance.     The 


284 


LETTERS   OF   JOHN    KEATS 


sure  way,  Bailey,  is  first  to  know  a  Man's 
faults,  and  then  be  passive  —  if  after  that 
he  insensibly  draws  you  towards  him  then 
you  have  no  power  to  break  the  link.  Be- 
fore I  felt  interested  in  either  Reynolds  or 
Haydon,  I  was  well  read  in  their  faults; 
yet,  knowing  them,  I  have  been  cementing 
gradually  with  both.  I  have  an  affection 
for  them  both,  for  reasons  almost  opposite 
—  and  to  both  must  I  of  necessity  cling, 
supported  always  by  the  hope  that,  when  a 
little  time,  a  few  years,  shall  have  tried  me 
more  fully  in  their  esteem,  I  may  be  able 
to  bring  them  together.  The  time  must 
come,  because  they  have  both  hearts:  and 
they  will  recollect  the  best  parts  of  each 
other,  when  this  gust  is  overblown.  —  I  had 
a  message  from  you  through  a  letter  to 
Jane  —  I  think,  about  Cripps  —  there  can 
be  no  idea  of  binding  until  a  sufficient  sum 
is  sure  for  him  —  and  even  then  the  thing 
should  be  maturely  considered  by  all  his 
helpers  —  I  shall  try  my  luck  upon  as  many 
fat  purses  as  I  can  meet  with.  —  Cripps  is 
improving  very  fast:  I  have  the  greater 
hopes  of  him  because  he  is  so  slow  in  devel- 
opment. A  Man  of  great  executing  powers 
at  20,  with  a  look  and  a  speech  almost 
stupid,  is  sure  to  do  something. 

I  have  just  looked  through  the  Second 
Side  of  your  Letter  —  I  feel  a  great  content 
at  it.  —  I  was  at  Hunt's  the  other  day,  and 
he  surprised  me  with  a  real  authenticated 
lock  of  Milton's  Hair.  I  know  you  would 
like  what  I  wrote  thereon,  so  here  it  is  — 
a*  they  say  of  a  Sheep  in  a  Nursery  Book :  — 

[Here  follow  the  lines,  printed  above,  p.  39.] 

This  I  did  at  Hunt's  at  his  request  — 
perhaps  I  should  have  done  something 
better  alone  and  at  home.  —  I  have  sent 
my  first  Book  to  the  press,  and  this  after- 
noon shall  begin  preparing  the  Second  — 
my  visit  to  you  will  be  a  great  spur  to 
quicken  the  proceeding.  —  I  have  not  had 
your  Sermon  returned  —  I  long  to  make  it 
the  Subject  of  a  Letter  to  you  —  What  do 
they  say  at  Oxford  ? 


I  trust  you  and  Gleig  pass  much  fine 
time  together.  Remember  me  to  him  and 
Whitehead.  My  Brother  Tom  is  getting 
stronger,  but  his  spitting  of  Blood  con- 
tinues. I  sat  down  to  read  King  Lear 
yesterday,  and  felt  the  greatness  of  the 
thing  up  to  the  Writing  of  a  Sonnet  pre- 
paratory thereto  —  in  my  next  you  shall 
have  it.  —  There  were  some  miserable 
reports  of  Rice's  health  —  I  went,  and  lo  ! 
Master  Jemmy  had  been  to  the  play  the 
night  before,  and  was  out  at  the  time  —  he 
always  comes  on  his  legs  like  a  Cat.  I  have 
seen  a  good  deal  of  Wordsworth.  Hazlttt 
is  lecturing  on  Poetry  at  the  Surrey  Insti- 
tution— I  shall  be  there  next  Tuesday. 

Your  most  affectionate  friend 

JOHN  KEATS. 

31.      TO  JOHN  TAYLOR 

[Hampstead,  January  30,  1818.] 
MY  DEAR  TAYLOR  —  These  lines  as  they 
now  stand  about '  happiness,'  having  rung  in 
my  ears  like  '  a  chime  a  mending '  —  See 
here, 

'Behold 
Wherein  lies  happiness,  Peona  ?  fold,  etc.' 

It  appears  to  me  the  very  contrary  of 
blessed.  I  hope  this  will  appear  to  you 
more  eligible. 

'  Wherein  lies  Happiness  ?  In  that  which  becks 
Our  ready  minds  to  fellowship  divine, 
A  fellowship  with  Essence  till  we  shine 
Full  alchemised,  and  free  of  space  —  Behold 
The  clear  religion  of  Heaven  —  fold,  etc.' 

You  must  indulge  me  by  putting  this  in, 
for  setting  aside  the  badness  of  the  other, 
such  a  preface  is  necessary  to  the  subject. 
The  whole  thing  must,  I  think,  have  ap- 
peared to  you,  who  are  a  consecutive  man, 
as  a  thing  almost  of  mere  words,  but  I 
assure  you  that,  when  I  wrote  it,  it  was  a 
regular  stepping  of  the  Imagination  to- 
wards a  truth.  My  having  written  that 
argument  will  perhaps  be  of  the  greatest 
service  to  me  of  anything  I  ever  did.  It  set 
before  me  the  gradations  of  happiness,  even 


TO   JOHN   HAMILTON   REYNOLDS 


285 


like  a  kind  of  pleasure  thermometer,  and  is 
my  first  step  towards  the  chief  attempt  in 
the  drama.  The  playing  of  different  natures 
with  joy  and  Sorrow  — 

Do  me  this  favour,  and  believe  me 
Your  sincere  friend  J.  KEATS. 

I  hope  your  next  work  will  be  of  a  more 
general  Interest.  I  suppose  you  cogitate  a 
little  about  it,  now  and  then. 

32.    TO  JOHN  HAMILTON  REYNOLDS 

Hampstead,  Saturday  [January  31,  1818]. 

MY  DEAR  REYNOLDS  —  I  have  parcelled 
out  this  day  for  Letter  Writing  — more 
resolved  thereon  because  your  Letter  will 
come  as  a  refreshment  and  will  have  (sic 
parvis  etc.)  the  same  effect  as  a  Kiss  in 
certain  situations  where  people  become 
over-generous.  I  have  read  this  first  sen- 
tence over,  and  think  it  savours  rather; 
however  an  inward  innocence  is  like  a 
nested  dove,  as  the  old  song  says.  .  .  . 30 

Now  I  purposed  to  write  to  you  a  serious 
poetical  letter,  but  I  find  that  a  maxim  I 
met  with  the  other  day  is  a  just  one  :  *  On 
cause  mieux  quand  on  ne  dit  pas  causons.' 
I  was  hindered,  however,  from  my  first  in- 
tention by  a  mere  muslin  Handkerchief 
very  neatly  pinned  —  but  *  Hence,  vain  de- 
luding,' etc.  Yet  I  cannot  write  in  prose; 
it  is  a  sunshiny  day  and  I  cannot,  so  here 
goes,  — 

['  Hence  Burgundy,  Claret,  and  Port,'  printed 
above  in  the  Appendix,  p.  242.] 

My  dear  Reynolds,  you  must  forgive  all 
this  ranting  —  but  the  fact  is,  I  cannot 
write  sense  this  Morning  —  however  you 
shall  have  some  —  I  will  copy  out  my  last 
Sonnet. 

['When  I  have  fears  that  I  may  cease  to  be,' 
given  above,  p.  39.] 

I  must  take  a  turn,  and  then  write  to 
Teignmouth.  Remember  me  to  all,  not 
excepting  yourself. 

Your  sincere  friend         JOHN  KEATS. 


33.    TO  THE  SAME 

Hampstead,  Tuesday  [February  3,  1818]. 
MY  DEAR  REYNOLDS  —  I  thank  you  for 
your  dish  of  Filberts  —  would  I  could  get 
a  basket  of  them  by  way  of  dessert  every 
day  for  the  sum  of  twopence.81  Would  we 
were  a  sort  of  ethereal  Pigs,  and  turned 
loose  to  feed  upon  spiritual  Mast  and 
Acorns  —  which  would  be  merely  being  a 
squirrel  and  feeding  upon  filberts,  for  what 
is  a  squirrel  but  an  airy  pig,  or  a  filbert  but 
a  sort  of  archangelical  acorn  ?  About  the 
nuts  being  worth  cracking,  all  I  can  say  is, 
that  where  there  are  a  throng  of  delightful 
Images  ready  drawn,  simplicity  is  the  only 
thing.  The  first  is  the  best  on  account  of 
the  first  line,  and  the  '  arrow,  foil'd  of  its 
antler'd  food,'  and  moreover  (and  this  is 
the  only  word  or  two  I  find  fault  with,  the 
more  because  I  have  had  so  much  reason 
to  shun  it  as  a  quicksand)  the  last  has 
'  tender  and  true.'  We  must  cut  this,  and 
not  be  rattlesuaked  into  any  more  of  the 
like.  It  may  be  said  that  we  ought  to  read 
our  contemporaries,  that  Wordsworth,  etc. 
should  have  their  due  from  us.  But,  for 
the  sake  of  a  few  fine  imaginative  or  do- 
mestic passages,  are  we  to  be  bullied  into 
a  certain  Philosophy  engendered  in  the 
whims  of  an  Egotist  ?  Every  man  has  his 
speculations,  but  every  man  does  not  brood 
and  peacock  over  them  till  he  makes  a  false 
coinage  and  deceives  himself.  Many  a  man 
can  travel  to  the  very  bourne  of  Heaven, 
and  yet  want  confidence  to  put  down  his 
half-seeing.  Sancho  will  invent  a  Journey 
heavenward  as  well  as  anybody.  We  hate 
poetry  that  has  a  palpable  design  upon  us, 
and,  if  we  do  not  agree,  seems  to  put  its 
hand  into  its  breeches  pocket.  Poetry 
should  be  great  and  unobtrusive,  a  thing 
which  enters  into  one's  soul,  and  does  not 
startle  it  or  amaze  it  with  itself  —  but  with 
its  subject.  How  beautiful  are  the  retired 
flowers  !  —  how  would  they  lose  their 
beauty  were  they  to  throng  into  the  high- 
way, crying  out,  *  Admire  me,  I  am  a 


286 


LETTERS   OF  JOHN   KEATS 


violet !  Dote  upon  ine,  I  ain  a  primrose  ! ' 
Modern  poets  differ  from  the  Elizabethans 
in  this:  each  of  the  moderns  like  an  Elector 
of  Hanover  governs  his  petty  state  and 
knows  how  many  straws  are  swept  daily 
from  the  Causeways  in  all  his  dominions, 
and  has  a  continual  itching  that  all  the 
Housewives  should  have  their  coppers  well 
scoured:  The  ancients  were  Emperors  of 
vast  Provinces,  they  had  only  heard  of  the 
remote  ones  and  scarcely  cared  to  visit 
them.  I  will  cut  all  this  —  I  will  have  no 
more  of  Wordsworth  or  Hunt  in  partic- 
ular—  Why  should  we  be  of  the  tribe  of 
Manasseh,  when  we  can  wander  with  Esau  ? 
Why  should  we  kick  against  the  Pricks, 
when  we  can  walk  on  Roses  ?  Why  should 
we  be  owls,  when  we  can  be  eagles  ?  Why 
be  teased  with  « nice-eyed  wagtails,'  when 
we  have  in  sight  '  the  Cherub  Contempla- 
tion '  ?  Why  with  Wordsworth's  '  Matthew 
with  a  bough  of  wilding  in  his  hand,'  when 
we  can  have  Jacques  '  under  an  oak,'  etc.  ? 
The  secret  of  the  Bough  of  Wilding  will 
run  through  your  head  faster  than  I  can 
write  it.  Old  Matthew  spoke  to  him  some 
years  ago  on  some  nothing,  and  because  he 
happens  in  an  Evening  Walk  to  imagine 
the  figure  of  the  old  Man,  he  must  stamp 
it  down  in  black  and  white,  and  it  is  hence- 
forth sacred.  I  don't  mean  to  deny  Words- 
worth's grandeur  and  Hunt's  merit,  but  I 
mean  to  say  we  need  not  be  teased  with 
grandeur  and  merit  when  we  can  have 
them  uncontaminated  and  unobtrusive.  Let 
us  have  the  old  Poets  and  Robin  Hood. 
Your  letter  and  its  sonnets  gave  me  more 
pleasure  than  will  the  Fourth  Book  of 
Childe  Harold  and  the  whole  of  anybody's 
life  and  opinions.  In  return  for  your  Dish 
of  Filberts,  I  have  gathered  a  few  Catkins, 
I  hope  they  '11  look  pretty. 

[To  J.  H.  R.  in  answer  to  his  Robin  Hood 
Sonnets.  See  p.  41.] 

I  hope  you  will  like  them  —  they  are 
at  least  written  in  the  Spirit  of  Outlawry. 
Here  are  the  Mermaid  lines, 

[See  p.  40.] 


I  will  call  on  you  at  4  tomorrow,  and  we 
will  trudge  together,  for  it  is  not  the  thing 
to  be  a  stranger  in  the  Land  of  Harpsicols. 
I  hope  also  to  bring  you  my  2nd  Book.  In 
the  hope  that  these  Scribblings  will  be  some 
amusement  for  you  this  Evening,  I  remain, 
copying  on  the  Hill, 

Your  sincere  friend  and  Co-scribbler 
JOHN  KEATS. 

34.    TO  JOHN  TAYLOR 

Fleet  Street,  Thursday  Morn 
[February  5, 1818]. 

MY  DEAR  TAYLOR  —  I  have  finished 
copying  my  Second  Book  —  but  I  want  it 
for  one  day  to  overlook  it.  And  moreover 
this  day  I  have  very  particular  employ  in 
the  affair  of  Cripps  —  so  I  trespass  on  your 
indulgence,  and  take  advantage  of  your 
good  nature.  You  shall  hear  from  me  or 
see  me  soon.  I  will  tell  Reynolds  of  your 
engagement  to-morrow. 

Yours  unfeignedly  JOHN  KEATS. 

35.  TO  GEORGE  AND  THOMAS  KEATS 

Hampstead,  Saturday  Night 

[February  14, 1818]. 

MY  DEAR  BROTHERS  —  When  once  a 
man  delays  a  letter  beyond  the  proper  time, 
he  delays  it  longer,  for  one  or  two  reasons 
—  first,  because  he  must  begin  in  a  very 
common-place  style,  that  is  to  say,  with  an 
excuse;  and  secondly  things  and  circum- 
stances become  so  jumbled  in  his  mind, 
that  he  knows  not  what,  or  what  not,  he  has 
said  in  his  last  —  I  shall  visit  you  as  soon 
as  I  have  copied  my  poem  all  out,  I  am 
now  much  beforehand  with  the  printer, 
they  have  done  none  yet,  and  I  am  half 
afraid  they  will  let  half  the  season  by  be- 
fore the  printing.  I  am  determined  they 
shall  not  trouble  me  when  I  have  copied  it 
all.  —  Horace  Smith  has  lent  me  his  manu- 
script called  *  Nehemiah  Muggs,  an  ex- 
posure of  the  Methodists  '  —  perhaps  I  may 
send  you  a  few  extracts  —  Hazlitt's  last 


TO   JOHN   HAMILTON   REYNOLDS 


287 


Lecture  was  on  Thomson,  Cowper,  and 
Crabbe,  he  praised  Thomson  and  Cowper 
but  he  gave  Crabbe  an  unmerciful  licking 
—  I  think  Hunt's  article  of  Fazio  —  no  it 
was  not,  but  I  saw  Fazio  the  first  night, 
it  hung  rather  heavily  on  me  —  I  am  in  the 
high  way  of  being  introduced  to  a  squad 
of  people,  Peter  Pindar,  Mrs.  Opie,  Mrs. 
Scott  —  Mr.  Robinson  a  great  friend  of 
Coleridge's  called  on  me.32  Richards  tells 
me  that  my  poems  are  known  in  the  west 
country,  and  that  he  saw  a  very  clever  copy 
of  verses,  headed  with  a  Motto  from  my 
Sonnet  to  George  —  Honours  rush  so  thickly 
upon  me  that  I  shall  not  be  able  to  bear  up 
against  them.  What  think  you  —  am  I  to 
be  crowned  in  the  Capitol,  am  I  to  be  made 
a  Mandarin  —  No  !  I  am  to  be  invited, 
Mrs.  Hunt  tells  me,  to  a  party  at  Ollier's, 
to  keep  Shakspeare's  birthday  —  Shak- 
speare  would  stare  to  see  me  there.  The 
Wednesday  before  last  Shelley,  Hunt  and 
I  wrote  each  a  Sonnet  on  the  River  Nile, 
some  day  you  shall  read  them  all.  I  saw  a 
sheet  of  Endymion,  and  have  all  reason  to 
suppose  they  will  soon  get  it  done,  there 
shall  be  nothing  wanting  on  my  part.  I 
have  been  writing  at  intervals  many  songs 
and  Sonnets,  and  I  long  to  be  at  Teign- 
mouth,  to  read  them  over  to  you:  however 
I  think  I  had  better  wait  till  this  Book  is 
off  my  mind;  it  will  not  be  long  first. 

Reynolds  has  been  writing  two  very 
capital  articles,  in  the  Yellow  Dwarf,  on 
popular  Preachers  —  All  the  talk  here  is 
about  Dr.  Croft  the  Duke  of  Devon  etc. 

Your  most  affectionate  Brother  JOHN. 

36.     TO  JOHN  HAMILTON  REYNOLDS 

[Hampstead,  February  19,  1818.] 
MY  DEAR  REYNOLDS  —  I  had  an  idea 
that  a  Man  might  pass  a  very  pleasant  life 
in  this  manner  —  Let  him  on  a  certain  day 
read  a  certain  page  of  full  Poesy  or  dis- 
tilled Prose,  and  let  him  wander  with  it, 
and  muse  upon  it,  and  reflect  from  it,  and 
bring  home  to  it,  and  prophesy  upon  it, 


and  dream  upon  it:  until  it  becomes  stale 

—  But  when  will  it  do  so  ?  Never  —  When 
Man  has  arrived  at  a  certain  ripeness   in 
intellect  any  one  grand  and  spiritual  pas- 
sage serves  him  as  a  starting-post  towards 
all '  the  two-and-thirty  Palaces.'  How  happy 
is  such  a  voyage  of  conception,  what  deli- 
cious diligent  indolence  !      A  doze  upon  a 
sofa  does  not   hinder  it,  and   a  nap  upon 
Clover  engenders  ethereal  finger-pointings 

—  the  prattle  of  a  child  gives  it  wings,  and 
the  converse  of  middle-age  a  strength  to 
beat   them  —  a   strain   of   music   conducts 
to  '  an  odd  angle  of  the  Isle,'  and  when  the 
leaves  whisper  it  puts  a  girdle  round  the 
earth.  —  Nor   will   this    sparing   touch   of 
noble  Books   be  any  irreverence    to   their 
Writers  —  for  perhaps  the  honors  paid  by 
Man  to  Man  are  trifles  in  comparison  to  the 
benefit  done  by  great  works  to  the  « spirit 
and  pulse  of  good '  by  their  mere  passive 
existence.     Memory  should  not   be  called 
Knowledge  —  Many  have  original   minds 
who  do  not  think  it  —  they  are  led  away 
by  Custom.     Now   it  appears  to  me  that 
almost  any  Man  may  like  the  spider  spin 
from  his  own  inwards  his  own  airy  Citadel 

—  the  points  of  leaves  and  twigs  on  which 
the  spider  begins   her  work  are  few,  and 
she  fills  the  air  with  a  beautiful  circuiting. 
Man  should  be  content  with  as  few  points 
to  tip  with  the  fine  Web  of  his  Soul,  and 
weave  a  tapestry  empyrean  —  full  of  sym- 
bols for  his  spiritual  eye,  of  softness  for  his 
spiritual  touch,  of  space  for  his  wandering, 
of  distinctness  for    his   luxury.      But  the 
minds  of  mortals  are  so  different  and  bent 
on  such  diverse  journeys  that  it  may  at  first 
appeal*  impossible   for  any  common  taste 
and   fellowship   to   exist   between   two  or 
three  under  these  suppositions.    It  is  how- 
ever quite  the  contrary.  Minds  would  leave 
each  other  in  contrary  directions,  traverse 
each  other   in   numberless   points,  and  at 
last  greet  each  other  at  the  journey's  end. 
An  old  man  and  a  child  would  talk  together 
and  the  old  man  be  led  on  his  path  and  the 
child  left  thinking.  Man  should  not  dispute 


288 


LETTERS   OF   JOHN  KEATS 


or  assert,  but  whisper  results  to  his  Neigh- 
bour, and  thus  by  every  germ  of  spirit 
sucking  the  sap  from  mould  ethereal  every 
human  might  become  great,  and  humanity 
instead  of  being  a  wide  heath  of  furze  and 
briars,  with  here  and  there  a  remote  Oak 
or  Pine,  would  become  a  grand  democracy 
of  forest  trees.  It  has  been  an  old  compar- 
ison for  our  urging  on  —  the  beehive  — 
however  it  seems  to  me  that  we  should 
rather  be  the  flower  than  the  Bee  —  for  it 
is  a  false  notion  that  more  is  gained  by 
receiving  than  giving  —  no,  the  receiver 
and  the  giver  are  equal  in  their  benefits. 
The  flower,  I  doubt  not,  receives  a  fair 
guerdon  from  the  Bee  —  its  leaves  blush 
deeper  in  the  next  spring  —  and  who  shall 
say  between  Man  and  Woman  which  is  the 
most  delighted  ?  Now  it  is  more  noble  to 
sit  like  Jove  than  to  fly  like  Mercury:  — 
let  us  not  therefore  go  hurrying  about  and 
collecting  honey,  bee-like,  buzzing  here 
and  there  impatiently  from  a  knowledge  of 
what  is  to  be  arrived  at.  But  let  us  open 
our  leaves  like  a  flower,  and  be  passive  and 
receptive;  budding  patiently  under  the  eye 
of  Apollo  and  taking  hints  from  every  noble 
insect  that  favours  us  with  a  visit  —  Sap 
will  be  given  us  for  meat,  and  dew  for 
•drink.  I  was  led  into  these  thoughts,  my 
dear  Reynolds,  by  the  beauty  of  the  morn- 
ing operating  on  a  sense  of  Idleness.  I 
have  not  read  any  Books  — the  Morning 
said  I  was  right  —  I  had  no  idea  but  of  the 
Morning,  and  the  Thrush  said  I  was  right 
—  seeming  to  say, 

[Here  f ollows  the  sonnet  '  What  the  Thrush 
said,' p.  43.] 

Now  I  am  sensible  all  this  is  a  mere 
sophistication  (however  it  may  neighbour 
to  any  truths),  to  excuse  my  own  indolence 
—  So  I  will  not  deceive  myself  that  Man 
should  be  equal  with  Jove  —  but  think  him- 
self very  well  off  as  a  sort  of  scullion- 
Mercury  or  even  a  humble-bee.  It  is  no 
matter  whether  I  am  right  or  wrong  either 


one  way  or  another,  if  there  is  sufficient  to 
lift  a  little  time  from  your  shoulders  — 
Your  affectionate  friend  JOHN  KEATS. 

37.      TO  GEORGE  AND  THOMAS  KEATS 

Hampstead,  Saturday  [February  21,  1818.] 
MY  DEAR  BROTHERS  —  I  am  extremely 
sorry  to  have  given  you  so  much  uneasiness 
by  not  writing;  however,  you  know  good 
news  is  no  news  or  vice  versa.  I  do  not 
like  to  write  a  short  letter  to  you,  or  you 
would  have  had  one  long  before.  The 
weather  although  boisterous  to-day  has  been 
very  much  milder ;  and  I  think  Devonshire 
is  not  the  last  place  to  receive  a  temperate 
Change.  I  have  been  abominably  idle  since 
you  left,  but  have  just  turned  over  a  new 
leaf,  and  used  as  a  marker  a  letter  of 
excuse  to  an  invitation  from  Horace  Smith. 
The  occasion  of  my  writing  to-day  is  the 
enclosed  letter  —  by  Postmark  from  Miss 
W[ylie].  Does  she  expect  you  in  town 
George  ?  I  received  a  letter  the  other  day 
from  Haydon,  in  which  he  says,  his  Essays 
on  the  Elgin  Marbles  are  being  translated 
into  Italian,  the  which  he  superintends.  I 
did  not  mention  that  I  had  seen  the  British 
Gallery,  there  are  some  nice  things  by 
Stark,  and  Bathsheba  by  Wilkie,  which  is 
condemned.  I  could  not  bear  Alston's 
Uriel. 

Reynolds  has  been  very  ill  for  some  time, 
confined  to  the  house,  and  had  leeches  ap- 
plied to  his  chest;  when  I  saw  him  on 
Wednesday  he  was  much  the  same,  and  he 
is  in  the  worst  place  for  amendment,  among 
the  strife  of  women's  tongues,  in  a  hot  and 
parch'd  room:  I  wish  he  would  move  to 
Butler's  for  a  short  time.  The  Thrushes 
and  Blackbirds  have  been  singing  me  into 
an  idea  that  it  was  Spring,  and  almost  that 
leaves  were  on  the  trees.  So  that  black 
clouds  and  boisterous  winds  seem  to  have 
mustered  and  collected  in  full  Divan,  for 
the  purpose  of  convincing  me  to  the  con- 
trary. Taylor  says  my  poem  shall  be  out 


TO   JOHN   TAYLOR 


289 


in  a  month,  I  think  he  will  be  out  before 
it.  ... 

The  thrushes  are  singing  now  as  if  they 
would  speak  to  the  winds,  because  their  big 
brother  Jack,  the  Spring,  was  not  far  off. 
I  am  reading  Voltaire  and  Gibbon,  although 
I  wrote  to  Reynolds  the  other  day  to  prove 
reading  of  no  use;  I  have  not  seen  Hunt 
since,  I  am  a  good  deal  with  Dilke  and 
Brown,  we  are  very  thick;  they  are  very 
kind  to  me,  they  are  well.  I  don't  think 
I  could  stop  in  Hampstead  but  for  their 
neighbourhood.  I  hear  Hazlitt's  lectures 
regularly,  his  last  was  on  Gray,  Collins, 
Young,  etc.,  and  he  gave  a  very  fine  piece 
of  discriminating  Criticism  on  Swift,  Vol- 
taire, and  Rabelais.  I  was  very  disappointed 
at  his  treatment  of  Chatterton.  I  generally 
meet  with  many  I  know  there.  Lord  By- 
ron's 4th  Canto  is  expected  out,  and  I 
heard  somewhere,  that  Walter  Scott  has 
a  new  Poem  in  readiness.  I  am  sorry  that 
Wordsworth  has  left  a  bad  impression 
wherever  he  visited  in  town  by  his  egotism, 
Vanity,  and  bigotry.  Yet  he  is  a  great 
poet  if  not  a  philosopher.  I  have  not  yet 
read  Shelley's  Poem,  I  do  not  suppose  you 
have  it  yet,  at  the  Teignmouth  libraries. 
These  double  letters  must  come  rather 
heavy,  I  hope  you  have  a  moderate  portion 
of  cash,  but  don't  fret  at  all,  if  you  have 
not  —  Lord  !  I  intend  to  play  at  cut  and  run 
as  well  as  Falstaff,  that  is  to  say,  before  he 
got  so  lusty. 

I  remain  praying  for  your  health  my 
dear  Brothers 

Your  affectionate  Brother  JOHN. 

38.      TO  JOHN  TAYLOR 

Hampstead,  February  27  [1818]. 
MY  DEAR  TAYLOR  —  Your  alteration 
strikes  me  as  being  a  great  Improvement 
—  And  now  I  will  attend  to  the  punctua- 
tions you  speak  of  —  The  comma  should  be 
at  soberly,  and  in  the  other  passage,  the 
Comma  should  follow  quiet.  I  am  extremely 
indebted  to  you  for  this  alteration,  and  also 


for  your  after  admonitions.  It  is  a  sorry 
thing  for  me  that  any  one  should  have  to 
overcome  prejudices  in  reading  my  verses 
—  that  affects  me  more  than  any  hypercrit- 
icism  on  any  particular  passage  —  In  En- 
dymion,  I  have  most  likely  but  moved  into 
the  go-cart  from  the  leading-strings  —  In 
poetry  I  have  a  few  axioms,  and  you  will 
see  how  far  I  am  from  their  centre. 

1st.  I  think  poetry  should  surprise  by 
a  fine  excess,  and  not  by  singularity;  It 
should  strike  the  reader  as  a  wording  of 
his  own  highest  thoughts,  and  appear  al- 
most a  remembrance. 

2d.  Its  touches  of  beauty  should  never 
be  half-way,  thereby  making  the  reader 
breathless,  instead  of  content.  The  rise,  the 
progress,  the  setting  of  Imagery  should, 
like  the  sun,  come  natural  to  him,  shine 
over  him,  and  set  soberly,  although  in  mag- 
nificence, leaving  him  in  the  luxury  of  twi- 
light. But  it  is  easier  to  think  what  poetry 
should  be,  than  to  write  it  —  And  this  leads 
me  to 

Another  axiom  —  That  if  poetry  comes 
not  as  naturally  as  the  leaves  to  a  tree,  it 
had  better  not  come  at  all.  —  However  it 
may  be  with  me,  I  cannot  help  looking  into 
new  countries  with  '  O  for  a  Muse  of  Fire  to 
ascend ! '  If  Endymion  serves  me  as  a 
pioneer,  perhaps  I  ought  to  be  content  —  I 
have  great  reason  to  be  content,  for  thank 
God  I  can  read,  and  perhaps  understand 
Shakspeare  to  his  depths;  and  I  have  I  am 
sure  many  friends,  who,  if  I  fail,  will  attri- 
bute any  change  in  my  life  and  temper  to 
humbleness  rather  than  pride  —  to  a  cower- 
ing under  the  wings  of  great  poets,  rather 
than  to  a  bitterness  that  I  am  not  appre- 
ciated. I  am  anxious  to  get  Endymion 
printed  that  I  may  forget  it  and  proceed. 
1  have  copied  the  3rd  Book  and  begun  the 
4th.  On  running  my  eye  over  the  proofs, 
I  saw  one  mistake  —  I  will  notice  it  pre- 
sently, and  also  any  others,  if  there  be  any. 
There  should  be  no  comma  in  'the  raft 
branch  down  sweeping  from  a  tall  ash-top/ 
I  have  besides  made  one  or  two  alterations, 


290 


LETTERS   OF  JOHN   KEATS 


and  also  altered  the  thirteenth  line  p.  32  to 
make  sense  of  it,  as  you  will  see.  I  will 
take  care  the  printer  shall  not  trip  up  my 
heels.  There  should  be  no  dash  after 
Dryope,  in  the  line  « Dryope's  lone  lulling 
of  her  child.' 

Remember  me  to  Percy  Street. 
Your  sincere  and  obliged  friend 

JOHN  KEATS. 

P.  S.  —  You  shall  have  a  short  preface 
in  good  time. 

39.      TO  MESSRS.  TAYLOR  AND  HESSEY 

Hampstead,  March  [1818  ?] 
MY  DEAR  SIRS  —  I  am  this  morning 
making  a  general  clearance  of  all  lent 
Books  —  all  —  I  am  afraid  I  do  not  return 
all  —  I  must  fog  your  memories  about  them 
—  however  with  many  thanks  here  are  the 
remainder  —  which  I  am  afraid  are  not 
worth  so  much  now  as  they  were  six  months 
ago  —  I  mean  the  fashions  may  have 
changed  — 

Yours  truly  JOHN  KEATS. 

40.      TO  BENJAMIN  BAILEY 

Teignmouth,  Friday  [March  13,  1818]. 
MY  DEAR  BAILEY  —  When  a  poor  devil 
is  drowning,  it  is  said  he  comes  thrice  to 
the  surface  ere  he  makes  his  final  sink  —  if 
however  even  at  the  third  rise  he  can  man- 
age to  catch  hold  of  a  piece  of  weed  or 
rock  he  stands  a  fair  chance,  as  I  hope  I  do 
now,  of  being  saved.  I  have  sunk  twice  in 
our  correspondence,  have  risen  twice,  and 
have  been  too  idle,  or  something  worse,  to 
extricate  myself.  I  have  sunk  the  third 
time,  and  just  now  risen  again  at  this  two 
of  the  Clock  P.  M.,  and  saved  myself 
from  utter  perdition  by  beginning  this,  all 
drenched  as  I  am,  and  fresh  from  the  water. 
And  I  would  rather  endure  the  present  in- 
convenience of  a  wet  jacket  than  you  should 
keep  a  laced  one  in  store  for  me.  Why  did 
I  not  stop  at  Oxford  in  my  way?  How 
can  you  ask  such  a  Question  ?  Why,  did 


I  not  promise  to  do  so  ?  Did  I  not  in  a 
letter  to  you  make  a  promise  to  do  so  ? 
Then  how  can  you  be  so  unreasonable  as  to 
ask  me  why  I  did  not  ?  This  is  the  thing 

—  (for  I  have  been  rubbing  up  my  Inven- 
tion —  trying  several  sleights  —  I  first  pol- 
ished a  cold,  felt  it  in  my  fingers,  tried  it 
on  the  table,  but  could  not  pocket  it:  —  I 
tried  Chillblains,  Rheumatism,  Gout,  tight 
boots,  —  nothing  of  that  sort  would  do,  — 
so  this  is,  as  I  was  going  to  say,  the  thing) 

—  I  had  a  letter  from  Tom,  saying  how 
much  better  he  had  got,  and  thinking  he 
had  better  stop  —  I  went  down  to  prevent 
his   coming   up.     Will  not  this  do  ?  turn 
it  which  way  you  like  —  it  is  selvaged  all 
round.     I  have   used   it,  these   three  last 
days,  to  keep  out  the  abominable  Devon- 
shire weather  —  by  the   by,  you  may  say 
what  you  will  of  Devonshire:  the  truth  is, 
it  is  a  splashy,  rainy,  misty,  snowy,  foggy, 
haily,  floody,  muddy,  slipshod  county.  The 
hills  are  very  beautiful,  when  you   get   a 
sight  of  'em  —  the  primroses  are  out,  but 
then  you  are  in  —  the  Cliffs  are  of  a  fine 
deep  colour,  but  then  the  Clouds  are  con- 
tinually vicing  with  them  —  the  Women 
like  your  London  people  in  a  sort  of  neg- 
ative way  —  because  the   native  men  are 
the  poorest  creatures  in  England  — because 
Government  never  have  thought  it  worth 
while   to   send   a  recruiting   party  among 
them.     When    I   think   of    Wordsworth's 
sonnet  '  Vanguard  of  Liberty  !  ye  men  of 
Kent ! '   the   degenerated   race    about  me 
are  Pulvis  ipecac,  simplex  —  a  strong  dose. 
Were   I   a   corsair,   I'd   make    a  descent 
on   the   south   coast   of   Devon;    if  I  did 
not  run  the  chance  of  having  Cowardice 
imputed  to  me.     As  for  the  men,  they'd 
run    away   into   the    Methodist    meeting- 
houses, and  the  women  would  be  glad  of  it. 
Had  England  been  a  large  Devonshire,  we 
should  not  have  won  the  Battle  of  Waterloo. 
There  are  knotted  oaks  —  there  are  lusty 
rivulets  ?  there  are  meadows  such  as  are 
not  —  there   are   valleys   of  feminine  [  ?] 
climate  —  but    there   are   no   thews   and 


TO    BENJAMIN    BAILEY 


291 


sinews  —  Moor's  Almanack  is  here  a  Curi- 
osity —  Arms,  neck,  and  shoulders  may  at 
least  be  seen  there,  and  the  ladies  read  it 
as  some  out-of-the-way  Romance.  Such  a 
quelling  Power  have  these  thoughts  over 
me  that  I  fancy  the  very  air  of  a  deterio- 
rating quality.  I  fancy  the  flowers,  all 
precocious,  have  an  Acrasian  spell  about 
them  —  I  feel  able  to  beat  off  the  Devon- 
shire waves  like  soapfroth.  I  think  it  well 
for  the  honour  of  Britain  that  Julius  Caesar 
did  not  first  land  in  this  County.  A  Devon- 
shirer  standing  on  his  native  hills  is  not  a 
distinct  object  —  he  does  not  show  against 
the  light  —  a  wolf  or  two  would  dispossess 
him.  I  like,  I  love  England.  I  like  its 
living  men  —  give  me  a  long  brown  plain 
4  for  my  morning,'  [money  ?]  so  I  may  meet 
with  some  of  Edmund  Ironside's  descend- 
ants. Give  me  a  barren  mould,  so  I  may 
meet  with  some  shadowing  of  Alfred  in  the 
shape  of  a  Gipsy,  a  huntsman  or  a  shep- 
herd. Scenery  is  fine  —  but  human  nature 
is  finer  —  the  sward  is  richer  for  the  tread 
of  a  real  nervous  English  foot  —  the  Eagle's 
nest  is  finer,  for  the  Mountaineer  has  looked 
into  it.  Are  these  facts  or  prejudices  ? 
Whatever  they  be,  for  them  I  shall  never 
be  able  to  relish  entirely  any  Devonshire 
scenery  —  Homer  is  fine,  Achilles  is  fine, 
Diomed  is  fine,  Shakspeare  is  fine,  Hamlet 
is  fine,  Lear  is  fine,  but  dwindled  English- 
men are  not  fine.  Where  too  the  women 
are  so  passable,  and  have  such  English 
names,  such  as  Ophelia,  Cordelia  etc.  that 
they  should  have  such  Paramours  or  rather 
Imparamours  —  As  for  them,  I  cannot  in 
thought  help  wishing,  as  did  the  cruel 
Emperor,  that  they  had  but  one  head,  and 
I  might  cut  it  off  to  deliver  them  from  any 
horrible  Courtesy  they  may  do  their  un- 
deserving countrymen.  I  wonder  I  meet 
with  no  born  monsters  —  O  Devonshire,  last 
night  I  thought  the  moon  had  dwindled  in 

heaven 

I  have  never  had  your  Sermon  from 
Wordsworth,  but  Mr.  Dilke  lent  it  me. 
You  know  my  ideas  about  Religion.  I  do 


not  think  myself  more  in  the  right  than 
other  people,  and  that  nothing  in  this  world 
is  proveable.  I  wish  I  could  enter  into  all 
your  feelings  on  the  subject,  merely  for  one 
short  10  minutes,  and  give  you  a  page  or 
two  to  your  liking.  I  am  sometimes  so 
very  sceptical  as  to  think  Poetry  itself  a 
mere  Jack  o'  Lantern  to  amuse  whoever 
may  chance  to  be  struck  with  its  brilliance. 
As  tradesmen  say  everything  is  worth  what 
it  will  fetch,  so  probably  every  mental  pur- 
suit takes  its  reality  and  worth  from  the 
ardour  of  the  pursuer  —  being  in  itself  a 
Nothing.  Ethereal  things  may  at  least  be 
thus  real,  divided  under  three  heads  — 
Things  real  —  things  semireal  —  and  no- 
things. Things  real,  such  as  existences  of 
Sun  moon  and  Stars  —  and  passages  of 
Shakspeare.  —  Things  semireal,  such  as 
love,  the  clouds  etc.,  which  require  a  greet- 
ing of  the  Spirit  to  make  them  wholly  exist 
—  and  Nothings,  which  are  made  great  and 
dignified  by  an  ardent  pursuit  —  which,  by 
the  by,  stamp  the  Burgundy  mark  on  the 
bottles  of  our  minds,  insomuch  as  they  are 
able  to  '  consecrate  whatever  they  look  upon.1 
I  have  written  a  sonnet  here  of  a  somewhat 
collateral  nature  —  so  don't  imagine  it  an 
'  apropos  des  bottes  '  — 

[The  sonnet  is  that  entitled  'The  Human 
Seasons,'  given  on  p.  44.] 

Aye,  this  may  be  carried  —  but  what  am 
I  talking  of  ?  —  it  is  an  old  maxim  of  mine, 
and  of  course  must  be  well  known,  that 
every  point  of  thought  is  the  Centre  of  an 
intellectual  world.  The  two  uppermost 
thoughts  in  a  Man's  mind  are  the  two  poles 
of  his  world  —  he  revolves  on  them,  and 
everything  is  Southward  or  Northward  to 
him  through  their  means.  —  We  take  but 
three  steps  from  feathers  to  iron.  —  Now, 
my  dear  fellow,  I  must  once  for  all  tell 
you  I  have  not  one  idea  of  the  truth  of  any 
of  my  speculations  —  I  shall  never  be  a 
reasoner,  because  I  care  not  to  be  in  the 
right,  when  retired  from  bickering  and  in 
a  proper  philosophical  temper.  So  you 


292 


LETTERS   OF   JOHN    KEATS 


must  not  stare  if  in  any  future  letter,  I  en- 
deavour to  prove  that  Apollo,  as  he  had 
catgut  strings  to  his  lyre,  used  a  cat's  paw 
as  a  pecten  —  and  further  from  said  Pecten's 
reiterated  and  continual  teasing  came  the 
term  hen-pecked.  My  Brother  Tom  desires 
to  be  remembered  to  you;  he  has  just  this 
moment  had  a  spitting  of  blood,  poor  fellow 
—  Remember  me  to  Gleig  andWhitehead. 
Your  affectionate  friend  JOHN  KEATS. 


41.      TO  JOHN  HAMILTON  REYNOLDS 

Teignmouth,  Saturday  [March  14, 1818]. 
DEAR  REYNOLDS  —  I  escaped  being 
blown  over  and  blown  under  and  trees  and 
house  being  toppled  on  me.  —  I  have  since 
hearing  of  Brown's  accident  had  an  aver- 
sion to  a  dose  of  parapet,  and  being  also  a 
lover  of  antiquities  I  would  sooner  have  a 
harmless  piece  of  Herculaneum  sent  me 
quietly  as  a  present  than  ever  so  modern  a 
chimney-pot  tumbled  on  to  my  head  — 
Being  agog  to  see  some  Devonshire,  I  would 
have  taken  a  walk  the  first  day,  but  the  rain 
would  not  let  me;  and  the  second,  but  the 
rain  would  not  let  me;  and  the  third,  but 
the  rain  forbade  it.  Ditto  4  —  ditto  5  — 
ditto  —  so  I  made  up  my  Mind  to  stop  in- 
doors, and  catch  a  sight  flying  between  the 
showers:  and,  behold  I  saw  a  pretty  valley 
—  pretty  cliffs,  pretty  Brooks,  pretty  Mead- 
ows, pretty  trees,  both  standing  as  they 
were  created,  and  blown  down  as  they  are 
uncreated  —  The  green  is  beautiful,  as  they 
say,  and  pity  it  is  that  it  is  amphibious  — 
mais  I  but  alas  !  the  flowers  here  wait  as 
naturally  for  the  rain  twice  a  day  as  the 
Mussels  do  for  the  Tide;  so  we  look  upon 
a  brook  in  these  parts  as  you  look  upon  a 
splash  in  your  Country.  There  must  be 
something  to  support  this  —  aye,  fog,  hail, 
snow,  rain,  Mist  blanketing  up  three  parts 
of  the  year.  This  Devonshire  is  like  Lydia 
Languish,  very  entertaining  when  it  smiles, 
but  cursedly  subject  to  sympathetic  mois- 
ture. You  have  the  sensation  of  walking 
under  one  great  Lamplighter:  and  you 


can't  go  on  the  other  side  of  the  ladder  to 
keep  your  frock  clean,  and  cosset  your 
superstition.  Buy  a  girdle  —  put  a  pebble 
in  your  mouth  —  loosen  your  braces  —  for  I 
am  going  among  scenery  whence  I  intend 
to  tip  you  the  Damosel  Radcliffe  —  I '11 
cavern  you,  and  grotto  you,  and  waterfall 
you,  and  wood  you,  and  water  you,  and 
immense-rock  you,  and  tremendous-sound 
you,  and  solitude  you.  I  '11  make  a  lodg- 
ment on  your  glacis  by  a  row  of  Pines,  and 
storm  your  covered  way  with  bramble 
Bushes.  I'll  have  at  you  with  hip  and 
haw  small-shot,  and  cannonade  you  with 
Shingles  —  I  '11  be  witty  upon  salt-fish,  and 
impede  your  cavalry  with  clotted  cream. 
But  ah  Coward  !  to  talk  at  this  rate  to  a 
sick  man,  or,  I  hope,  to  one  that  was  sick 
—  for  I  hope  by  this  you  stand  on  your 
right  foot.  If  you  are  not  —  that 's  all,  — 
I  intend  to  cut  all  sick  people  if  they  do  not 
make  up  their  minds  to  cut  Sickness  —  a 
fellow  to  whom  I  have  a  complete  aversion, 
and  who  strange  to  say  is  harboured  and 
countenanced  in  several  houses  where  I 
visit  —  he  is  sitting  now  quite  impudent 
between  me  and  Tom  —  He  insults  me  at 
poor  Jem  Rice's  —  and  you  have  seated  him 
before  now  between  us  at  the  Theatre, 
when  I  thought  he  looked  with  a  longing 
eye  at  poor  Kean.  I  shall  say,  once  for  all, 
to  my  friends  generally  and  severally,  cut 
that  fellow,  or  I  cut  you  — 

I  went  to  the  Theatre  here  the  other 
night,  which  I  forgot  to  tell  George,  and 
got  insulted,  which  I  ought  to  remember 
to  forget  to  tell  any  Body;  for  I  did  not 
fight,  and  as  yet  have  had  no  redress  — 
'  Lie  thou  there,  sweetheart ! '  I  wrote  to 
Bailey  yesterday,  obliged  to  speak  in  a  high 
way,  and  a  damme  who's  afraid  —  for  I 
had  owed  him  so  long;  however,  he  shall  see 
I  will  be  better  in  future.  Is  he  in  town 
yet  ?  I  have  directed  to  Oxford  as  the 
better  chance.  I  have  copied  my  fourth 
Book,  and  shall  write  the  Preface  soon.  I 
wish  it  was  all  done;  for  I  want  to  forget 
it  and  make  my  mind  free  for  something 


TO   MESSRS.  TAYLOR   AND   HESSEY 


293 


new  —  Atkins  the  Coachman,  Bartlett  the 
Surgeon,  Simmons  the  Barber,  and  the  Girls 
over  at  the  Bonnetshop,  say  we  shall  now 
have  a  month  of  seasonable  weather  — 
warm,  witty,  and  full  of  invention  —  Write 
to  me  and  tell  me  that  you  are  well  or 
thereabouts,  or  by  the  holy  Beaucceur, 
which  I  suppose  is  the  Virgin  Mary,  or  the 
repented  Magdalen  (beautiful  name,  that 
Magdalen),  I  '11  take  to  my  Wings  and  fly 
away  to  anywhere  but  old  or  Nova  Scotia 

—  I  wish  I    had   a   little   innocent  bit   of 
Metaphysic  in  my  head,  to  criss-cross  the 
letter:  but  you  know  a  favourite  tune  is 
hardest  to  be  remembered  when  one  wants 
it  most  and  you,  I  know,  have  long  ere  this 
taken  it  for  granted  that  I  never  have  any 
speculations    without    associating    you    in 
them,  where  they  are  of  a  pleasant  nature, 
and   you  know  enough  of  me   to  tell  the 
places  where  I  haunt  most,  so  that  if  you 
think  for  five  minutes  after  having  read 
this,  you  will  find  it  a  long  letter,  and  see 
written  in  the  Air  above  you, 

Your  most  affectionate  friend 

JOHN  KEATS. 

Remember   me  to   all.     Tom's  remem- 
brances to  you. 

42.      TO  BENJAMIN  ROBERT  HAYDON 

Teignmouth,  Saturday  Morn  [March  21,  1818]. 

MY  DEAR  HAYDON  —  In  sooth,  I  hope 

you  are  not  too  sanguine  about  that  seal M 

—  in  sooth  I  hope  it  is  not  Brumidgeum  — 
in  double  sooth  I  hope  it  is  his  —  and  in 
triple  sooth  I  hope  I  shall  have  an  impres- 
sion.     Such  a  piece  of  intelligence    came 
doubly  welcome  to  me  while  in  your  own 
County  and  in  your  own  hand  —  not  but  I 
have  blown  up  the  said  County  for  its  urinal 
qualifications  —  the    six   first   days  I   was 
here  it  did  nothing  but  rain;  and  at  that 
time  having  to  write  to  a  friend   I  gave 
Devonshire   a   good  blowing   up — it   has 
been  fine  for  almost  three  days,  and  I  was 
coming  round  a  bit;    but   to-day  it  rains 
again  —  with  me  the  County  is  yet  upon  its 


good  behaviour.  I  have  enjoyed  the  most 
delightful  Walks  these  three  fine  days 
beautiful  enough  to  make  me  content  here 
all  the  summer  could  I  stay. 

[Here  follow  the  verses  'At  Teignmouth,' 
given  above,  p.  242.] 

I  know  not  if  this  rhyming  fit  has  done 
anything  —  it  will  be  safe  with  you  if 
worthy  to  put  among  my  Lyrics.  Here  's 
some  doggrel  for  you  —  Perhaps  you  would 
like  a  bit  of  b hrell— 

['  The  Devon  Maid,'  see  above,  p.  243.] 

How  does  the  work  go  on  ?  I  should 
like  to  bring  out  my  *  Dentatus ' 84  at  the 
time  your  Epic  makes  its  appearance.  I 
expect  to  have  iny  Mind  soon  clear  for 
something  new.  Tom  has  been  much  worse: 
but  is  now  getting  better  —  his  remem- 
brances to  you.  I  think  of  seeing  the  Dart 
and  Plymouth  —  but  I  don't  know.  It  has 
as  yet  been  a  Mystery  to  me  how  and  where 
Wordsworth  went.  I  can't  help  thinking 
he  has  returned  to  his  Shell  —  with  his 
beautiful  Wife  and  his  enchanting  Sister. 
It  is  a  great  Pity  that  People  should  by 
associating  themselves  with  the  finest  things, 
spoil  them.  Hunt  has  damned  Hampstead 
and  masks  and  sonnets  and  Italian  tales. 
Wordsworth  has  damned  the  lakes  —  Mil- 
man  has  damned  the  old  drama  —  West 

has  damned wholesale.  Peacock  has 

damned  satire  —  Oilier  has  damn'd  Music 
—  Hazlitt  has  damned  the  bigoted  and  the 
blue-stockinged;  how  durst  the  Man  ?  he  is 
your  only  good  damner,  and  if  ever  I  am 
damn'd  —  damn  me  if  I  should  n't  like  him 
to  damn  me.  It  will  not  be  long  ere  I  see 
you,  but  I  thought  I  would  just  give  you  a 
line  out  of  Devon. 

Yours  affectionately        JOHN  KEATS. 

Remember  me  to  all  we  know. 


43.      TO  MESSRS.  TAYLOR  AND  HESSEY 

Teignmouth,  Saturday  Morn  [March  21, 1818]. 

MY  DEAR  SIRS  —  I  had  no  idea  of  your 

getting  on  so  fast  —  I  thought  of  bringing 


294 


LETTERS    OF   JOHN   KEATS 


my  4th  Book  to  Town  all  in  good  time  for 
you  —  especially  after  the  late  unfortunate 
chance. 

I  did  not  however  for  my  own  sake  delay 
finishing  the  copy  which  was  done  a  few 
days  after  my  arrival  here.  I  send  it  off 
to-day,  and  will  tell  you  in  a  Postscript  at 
what  time  to  send  for  it  from  the  Bull  and 
Mouth  or  other  Inn.  You  will  find  the 
Preface  and  dedication  and  the  title  Page 
as  I  should  wish  it  to  stand  —  for  a  Ro- 
mance is  a  fine  thing  notwithstanding  the 
circulating  Libraries.  My  respects  to  Mrs. 
Hessey  and  to  Percy  Street. 

Yours  very  sincerely       JOHN  KEATS. 

P.  S.  —  I  have  been  advised  to  send  it  to 
you — you  may  expect  it  on  Monday  —  for 
I  sent  it  by  the  Postman  to  Exeter  at  the 
same  time  with  this  Letter.  Adieu  ! 


44.      TO  JAMES  KICE 

Teignmouth,  Tuesday  [March  24,  1818]. 
MY  DEAR  RICE  —  Being  in  the  midst  of 
your  favourite  Devon,  I  should  not,  by 
rights,  pen  one  word  but  it  should  contain 
a  vast  portion  of  Wit,  Wisdom  and  learn- 
ing —  for  I  have  heard  that  Milton  ere  he 
wrote  his  answer  to  Salmasius  came  into 
these  parts,  and  for  one  whole  month, 
rolled  himself  for  three  whole  hours  (per 
day  ?),  in  a  certain  meadow  hard  by  us  — 
where  the  mark  of  his  nose  at  equidistances 
is  still  shown.  The  exhibitor  of  the  said 
meadow  further  saith,  that,  after  these 
rollings,  not  a  nettle  sprang  up  in  all  the 
seven  acres  for  seven  years,  and  that  from 
the  said  time,  a  new  sort  of  plant  was  made 
from  the  whitethorn,  of  a  thornless  nature, 
very  much  used  by  the  bucks  of  the  present 
day  to  rap  their  boots  withal.  This  account 
made  me  very  naturally  suppose  that  the 
nettles  and  thorns  etherealised  by  the 
scholar's  rotatory  motion,  and  garnered  in 
his  head,  thence  flew  after  a  process  of  fer- 
mentation against  the  luckless  Salmasius 
and  occasioned  his  well-known  and  unhappy 
end.  What  a  happy  thing  it  would  be  if 


we  could  settle  our  thoughts  and  make  our 
minds  up  on  any  matter  in  five  minutes, 
and  remain  content  —  that  is,  build  a  sort 
of  mental  cottage  of  feelings,  quiet  and 
pleasant  —  to  have  a  sort  of  philosophical 
back-garden,  and  cheerful  holiday-keeping 
front  one  —  but  alas  !  this  never  can  be : 
for  as  the  material  cottager  knows  there 
are  such  places  as  France  and  Italy,  and 
the  Andes  and  burning  mountains,  so  the 
spiritual  Cottager  has  knowledge  of  the 
terra  semi-incognita  of  things  unearthly,  and 
cannot  for  his  life  keep  in  the  check-rein  — 
or  I  should  stop  here  quiet  and  comforta- 
ble in  my  theory  of  nettles.  You  will  see, 
however,  I  am  obliged  to  run  wild  being 
attracted  by  the  load-stone  concatenation. 
No  sooner  had  I  settled  the  knotty  point 
of  Salmasius,  than  the  Devil  put  this  whim 
into  my  head  in  the  likeness  of  one  of 
Pythagoras's  questionings  —  Did  Milton  do 
more  good  or  harm  in  the  world  ?  He 
wrote,  let  me  inform  you  (for  I  have  it 

from   a   friend,    who   had   it   of ,)  he 

wrote  Lycidas,  Comus,  Paradise  Lost  and 
other  Poems,  with  much  delectable  prose  — 
He  was  moreover  an  active  friend  to  man 
all  his  life,  and  has  been  since  his  death.  — 
Very  good  —  but,  my  dear  Fellow,  I  must 
let  you  know  that,  as  there  is  ever  the  same 
quantity  of  matter  constituting  this  habit- 
able globe  —  as  the  ocean  notwithstanding 
the  enormous  changes  and  revolutions  tak- 
ing place  in  some  or  other  of  its  demesnes 
—  notwithstanding  Waterspouts  whirlpools 
and  mighty  rivers  emptying  themselves  into 
it  —  still  is  made  up  of  the  same  bulk,  nor 
ever  varies  the  number  of  its  atoms  —  and 
as  a  certain  bulk  of  water  was  instituted  at 
the  creation  —  so  very  likely  a  certain  por- 
tion of  intellect  was  spun  forth  into  the  thin 
air,  for  the  brains  of  man  to  prey  upon  it. 
You  will  see  my  drift  without  any  unneces- 
sary parenthesis.  That  which  is  contained 
in  the  Pacific  could  not  lie  in  the  hollow  of 
the  Caspian  —  that  which  was  in  Milton's 
head  could  not  find  room  in  Charles  the 
Second's  —  He  like  a  moon  attracted  intel- 


TO    BENJAMIN    ROBERT   HAYDON 


295 


lect  to  its  flow  —  it  has  not  ebbed  yet,  but 
has  left  the  shore-pebbles  all  bare  —  I 
mean  all  Bucks,  Authors  of  Hengist,  and 
Castlereaghs  of  the  present  day;  who  with- 
out Milton's  gormandising  might  have  been 
all  wise  men  —  Now  forasmuch  as  I  was 
very  predisposed  to  a  country  I  had  heard 
you  speak  so  highly  of,  I  took  particular 
notice  of  everything  during  my  journey, 
and  have  bought  some  folio  asses'  skins  for 
memorandums.  I  have  seen  everything 
but  the  wind  —  and  that,  they  say,  becomes 
visible  by  taking  a  dose  of  acorns,  or  sleep- 
ing one  night  in  a  hog-trough,  with  your 
tail  to  the  Sow-Sow-West.  Some  of  the 
little  Bar-maids  look'd  at  me  as  if  I  knew 
Jem  Rice,  —  but  when  I  took  (cherry  ?) 
Brandy  they  were  quite  convinced.  One 
asked  whether  you  preserved  (?)  a  secret 
she  gave  you  on  the  nail  —  Another,  how 
many  buttons  of  your  coat  were  buttoned 
in  general.  —  I  told  her  it  used  to  be  four 
—  But  since  you  had  become  acquainted 
with  one  Martin  you  had  reduced  it  to 
three,  and  had  been  turning  this  third  one 
in  your  mind  —  and  would  do  so  with  finger 
and  thumb  only  you  had  taken  to  snuff.  I 
have  met  with  a  brace  or  twain  of  little 
Long-heads  —  not  a  bit  o'  the  German.  All 
in  the  neatest  little  dresses,  and  avoiding 
all  the  puddles,  but  very  fond  of  pepper- 
mint drops,  laming  ducks  and  .  .  .  Well,  I 
can't  tell !  I  hope  you  are  showing  poor 
Reynolds  the  way  to  get  well.  Send  me  a 
good  account  of  him,  and  if  I  can,  I  '11  send 
you  one  of  Tom  —  Oh  !  for  a  day  and  all 
well! 

I  went  yesterday  to  Dawlish  fair. 

Over  the  Hill  and  over  the  Dale, 
And  over  the  Bourne  to  Dawlish, 

Where  ginger-bread  wives  have  a  scanty  sale, 
And  ginger-bread  nuts  are  smallish,  etc.  etc. 

Tom's  remembrances  and  mine  to  you 
all. 

Your  sincere  friend 

JOHN  KEATS. 


45.  TO   JOHN   HAMILTON   REYNOLDS 

[Teignmouth,  March  25, 1818.] 
MY  DEAR  REYNOLDS  —  In  hopes  of 
cheering  you  through  a  Minute  or  two,  I 
was  determined  will  he  nill  he  to  send  you 
some  lines,  so  you  will  excuse  the  uncon- 
nected subject  and  careless  verse.  You 
know,  I  am  sure,  Claude's  Enchanted  Cas- 
tle,85 and  I  wish  you  may  be  pleased  with 
my  remembrance  of  it.  The  Rain  is  come 
on  again  —  I  think  with  me  Devonshire 
stands  a  very  poor  chance.  I  shall  damn 
it  up  hill  and  down  dale,  if  it  keep  up  to 
the  average  of  six  fine  days  in  three  weeks. 
Let  me  have  better  news  of  you. 

Tom's  remembrances  to  you.  Remember 
us  to  all. 

Your  affectionate  friend,  JOHN  KEATS. 

[The  letter  concludes  with  the  lines  given  on 
p.  241.] 

46.  TO  BENJAMIN  ROBERT  HAYDON 

Wednesday,  [Teignmouth,  Aprils,  1818]. 
MY  DEAR  HAYDON  —  I  am  glad  you 
were  pleased  with  my  nonsense,  and  if  it  so 
happen  that  the  humour  takes  me  when  I 
have  set  down  to  prose  to  you  I  will  not 
gainsay  it.  I  should  be  (God  forgive  me) 
ready  to  swear  because  I  cannot  make  use 
of  your  assistance  in  going  through  Devon 
if  I  was  not  in  my  own  Mind  determined  to 
visit  it  thoroughly  at  some  more  favourable 
time  of  the  year.  But  now  Tom  (who  is 
getting  greatly  better)  is  anxious  to  be  in 
Town — therefore  I  put  off  my  threading  the 
County.  I  purpose  within  a  month  to  put 
my  knapsack  at  my  back  and  make  a  pedes- 
trian tour  through  the  North  of  England, 
and  part  of  Scotland  —  to  make  a  sort  of 
Prologue  to  the  Life  I  intend  to  pursue 
—  that  is  to  write,  to  study  and  to  see 
all  Europe  at  the  lowest  expence.  I  will 
clamber  through  the  Clouds  and  exist.  I 
will  get  such  an  accumulation  of  stupendous 
recollections  that  as  I  walk  through  the 
suburbs  of  London  I  may  not  see  them  —  I 


296 


LETTERS   OF  JOHN   KEATS 


will  stand  upon  Mount  Blanc  and  remember 
this  coming  Summer  when  I  intend  to 
straddle  Ben  Lomond  —  with  my  soul ! — 
galligaskins  are  out  of  the  Question.  I  am 
nearer  myself  to  hear  your  '  Christ '  is 
being  tinted  into  immortality.  Believe  me 
Haydon  your  picture  is  part  of  myself  —  I 
have  ever  been  too  sensible  of  the  laby- 
rinthian  path  to  eminence  in  Art  (judging 
from  Poetry)  ever  to  think  I  understood 
the  emphasis  of  painting.  The  innumerable 
compositions  and  decompositions  which  take 
place  between  the  intellect  and  its  thousand 
materials  before  it  arrives  at  that  trem- 
bling delicate  and  snail-horn  perception  of 
beauty.  I  know  not  your  many  havens  of 
intenseness  —  nor  ever  can  know  them: 
but  for  this  I  hope  not  [sic  nought  ?]  you 
achieve  is  lost  upon  me:  for  when  a  School- 
boy the  abstract  Idea  I  had  of  an  heroic 
painting  —  was  what  I  cannot  describe.  I 
saw  it  somewhat  sideways,  large,  promi- 
nent, round,  and  colour'd  with  magnifi- 
cence —  somewhat  like  the  feel  I  have  of 
Anthony  and  Cleopatra.  Or  of  Alcibiades 
leaning  on  his  Crimson  Couch  in  his  Galley, 
his  broad  shoulders  imperceptibly  heaving 
with  the  Sea.  That  passage  in  Shakspeare 
is  finer  than  this  — 

*  See  how  the  surly  Warwick  mans  the  Wall.' 

I  like  your  consignment  of  Corneille  — 
that's  the  humour  of  it — they  shall  be 
called  your  Posthumous  Works.86  I  don't 
understand  your  bit  of  Italian.  I  hope  she 
will  awake  from  her  dream  and  flourish  fair 
—  my  respects  to  her.  The  Hedges  by  this 
time  are  beginning  to  leaf  —  Cats  are  becom- 
ing more  vociferous  —  young  Ladies  who 
wear  Watches  are  always  looking  at  them. 
Women  about  forty-five  think  the  Season 
very  backward  —  Ladies'  Mares  have  but 
half  an  allowance  of  food.  It  rains  here 
again,  has  been  doing  so  for  three  days  — 
however  as  I  told  you  I  '11  take  a  trial  in 
June,  July,  or  August  next  year. 

I   am   afraid  Wordsworth    went   rather 
huff d  out  of  Town  —  I  am  sorry  for  it  — 


he  cannot  expect  his  fireside  Divan  to  be 
infallible  —  he  cannot  expect  but  that  every 
man  of  worth  is  as  proud  as  himself.  O 
that  he  had  not  fit  with  a  Warrener  —  that 
is  dined  at  Kingston's.  I  shall  be  in  town 
in  about  a  fortnight  and  then  we  will  have 
a  day  or  so  now  and  then  before  I  set  out 
on  my  northern  expedition  —  we  will  have 
no  more  abominable  Rows  —  for  they  leave 
one  in  a  fearful  silence  —  having  settled 
the  Methodists  let  us  be  rational  —  not 
upon  compulsion  —  no  —  if  it  will  out  let  it 

—  but  I  will  not  play  the  Bassoon  any  more 
deliberately.  Remember  me  to  Hazlitt,  and 
Bewick  — 

Your  affectionate  friend,  JOHN  KEATS. 

47.      TO  JOHN  HAMILTON  REYNOLDS 

Thy.  morng.,  [Teignmouth,  April  9,  1818]. 

MY  DEAR  REYNOLDS  —  Since  you  all 
agree  that  the  thing  [the  first  preface  to 
Endymion~\  is  bad,  it  must  be  so  —  though  I 
am  not  aware  there  is  anything  like  Hunt 
in  it  (and  if  there  is,  it  is  my  natural  way, 
and  I  have  something  in  common  with 
Hunt).  Look  it  over  again,  and  examine 
into  the  motives,  the  seeds,  from  which  any 
one  sentence  sprung  —  I  have  not  the  slight- 
est feel  of  humility  towards  the  public  —  or 
to  anything  in  existence,  —  but  the  eternal 
Being,  the  Principle  of  Beauty,  and  the 
Memory  of  great  Men.  When  I  am  writ- 
ing for  myself  for  the  mere  sake  of  the 
moment's  enjoyment,  perhaps  nature  has  its 
course  with  me  —  but  a  Preface  is  written 
to  the  Public;  a  thing  I  cannot  help  look- 
ing upon  as  an  Enemy,  and  which  I  cannot 
address  without  feelings  of  Hostility.  If  I 
write  a  Preface  in  a  supple  or  subdued 
style,  it  will  not  be  in  character  with  me 
as  a  public  speaker  —  I  would  be  subdued 
before  my  friends,  and  thank  them  for  sub- 
duing me  —  but  among  Multitudes  of  Men 

—  I  have  no  feel  of  stooping,  I  hate  the 
idea  of  humility  to  them. 

I  never  wrote  one  single  Line  of  Poetry 
with  the  least  Shadow  of  public  thought. 


TO   JOHN    HAMILTON   REYNOLDS 


297 


Forgive  me  for  vexing  you  and  making  a 
Trojan  horse  of  such  a  Trifle,  both  with 
respect  to  the  matter  in  Question,  and  my- 
self —  but  it  eases  me  to  tell  you  —  I  could 
not  live  without  the  love  of  my  friends  —  I 
would  jump  down  ^Etna  for  any  great  Public 
good  —  but  I  hate  a  Mawkish  Popularity. 
I  cannot  be  subdued  before  them  —  My 
glory  would  be  to  daunt  and  dazzle  the 
thousand  jabberers  about  Pictures  and 
Books  —  I  see  swarms  of  Porcupines  with 
their  Quills  erect  'like  lime-twigs  set  to 
catch  my  Winged  Book,'  and  I  would  fright 
them  away  with  a  torch.  You  will  say  my 
Preface  is  not  much  of  a  Torch.  It  would 
have  been  too  insulting  'to  begin  from 
Jove,'  and  I  could  not  set  a  golden  head 
upon  a  thing  of  clay.  If  there  is  any  fault 
in  the  Preface  it  is  not  affectation,  but  an 
undersong  of  disrespect  to  the  Public  —  if 
I  write  another  Preface  it  must  be  done 
without  a  thought  of  those  people  —  I  will 
think  about  it.  If  it  should  not  reach  you 
in  four  or  five  days,  tell  Taylor  to  publish 
it  without  a  Preface,  and  let  the  Dedica- 
tion simply  stand  —  '  inscribed  to  the  Mem- 
ory of  Thomas  Chatterton.' 

I  had  resolved  last  night  to  write  to  you 
this  morning  —  I  wish  it  had  been  about 
something  else  —  something  to  greet  you 
towards  the  close  of  your  long  illness.  I 
have  had  one  or  two  intimations  of  your 
going  to  Hampstead  for  a  space;  and  I 
regret  to  see  your  confounded  Rheumatism 
keeps  you  in  Little  Britain  where  I  am 
sure  the  air  is  too  confined.  Devonshire 
continues  rainy.  As  the  drops  beat  against 
the  window,  they  give  me  the  same  sensa- 
tion as  a  quart  of  cold  water  offered  to 
revive  a  half-drowned  devil  —  no  feel  of 
the  clouds  dropping  fatness;  but  as  if  the 
roots  of  the  earth  were  rotten,  cold,  and 
drenched.  I  have  not  been  able  to  go  to 
Kent's  cave  at  Babbicombe  —  however  on 
one  very  beautiful  day  I  had  a  fine  Clamber 
over  the  rocks  all  along  as  far  as  that  place. 
I  shall  be  in  Town  in  about  Ten  days  — 
We  go  by  way  of  Bath  on  purpose  to  call 


on  Bailey.  I  hope  soon  to  be  writing  to 
you  about  the  things  of  the  north,  pur- 
posing to  wayfare  all  over  those  parts.  I 
have  settled  my  accoutrements  in  my  own 
mind,  and  will  go  to  gorge  wonders.  How- 
ever, we  '11  have  some  days  together  before 
I  set  out  — 

I  have  many  reasons  for  going  wonder- 
ways:  to  make  my  winter  chair  free  from 
spleen  —  to  enlarge  my  vision  —  to  escape 
disquisitions  on  Poetry  and  Kingston  Criti- 
cism; to  promote  digestion  and  economise 
shoe-leather.  I  '11  have  leather  buttons  and 
belt;  and,  if  Brown  holds  his  mind,  over 
the  Hills  we  go.  If  my  Books  will  help 
me  to  it,  then  will  I  take  all  Europe  in 
turn,  and  see  the  Kingdoms  of  the  Earth 
and  the  glory  of  them.  Tom  is  getting 
better,  he  hopes  you  may  meet  him  at  the 
top  o'  the  hill.  My  Love  to  your  nurses.  I 
am  ever 

Your  affectionate  Friend  JOHN  KEATS. 

48.      TO  THE   SAME 

[Teignmouth,]  Friday  [April  10, 1818] . 

MY  DEAR  REYNOLDS  — I  am  anxious 
you  should  find  this  Preface  tolerable.  If 
there  is  an  affectation  in  it  't  is  natural  to 
me.  Do  let  the  Printer's  Devil  cook  it,  and 
let  me  be  as  '  the  casing  air.' 

You  are  too  good  in  this  Matter  —  were  1 
in  your  state,  I  am  certain  I  should  have 
no  thought  but  of  discontent  and  illness  — 
I  might  though  be  taught  patience:  I  had 
an  idea  of  giving  no  Preface;  however, 
don't  you  think  this  had  better  go  ?  O,  let 
it  — one  should  not  be  too  timid  —  of  com- 
mitting faults. 

The  climate  here  weighs  us  down  com- 
pletely; Tom  is  quite  low-spirited.  It  is 
impossible  to  live  in  a  country  which  is  con- 
tinually under  hatches.  Who  would  live 
in  a  region  of  Mists,  Game  Laws,  indemnity 
Bills,  etc.,  when  there  is  such  a  place  as 
Italy  ?  It  is  said  this  England  from  its 
Clime  produces  a  Spleen,  able  to  engender 
the  finest  Sentiments,  and  cover  the  whole 


298 


LETTERS    OF   JOHN   KEATS 


face  of  the  isle  with  Green  —  so  it  ought, 
I'm  sure.  —  I  should  still  like  the  Dedica- 
tion simply,  as  I  said  in  my  last. 

I  wanted  to  send  you  a  few  songs  written 
in  your  favorite  Devon  —  it  cannot  be  — 
Rain  !  Rain  !  Rain  !  I  am  going  this  morn- 
ing to  take  a  facsimile  of  a  Letter  of 
Nelson's,  very  much  to  his  honour  —  you 
will  be  greatly  pleased  when  you  see  it  — 
in  about  a  week.  What  a  spite  it  is  one 
cannot  get  out  —  the  little  way  I  went  yes- 
terday, I  found  a  lane  banked  on  each  side 
with  store  of  Primroses,  while  the  earlier 
bushes  are  beginning  to  leaf. 

I  shall  hear  a  good  account  of  you  soon. 

Your  affectionate  Friend  JOHN  KEATS. 

My  Love  to  all  and  remember  me  to 
Taylor. 

49.      TO  JOHN  TAYLOR 

Teignmouth,  Friday  [April  24,  1818]. 

MY  DEAR  TAYLOR  —  I  think  I  did  wrong 
to  leave  to  you  all  the  trouble  of  Endy- 
mion  —  But  I  could  not  help  it  then  — 
another  time  I  shall  be  more  bent  to  all 
sorts  of  troubles  and  disagreeables.  Young 
men  for  some  time  have  an  idea  that  such 
a  thing  as  happiness  is  to  be  had,  and 
therefore  are  extremely  impatient  under 
any  unpleasant  restraining.  In  time  how- 
ever, of  such  stuff  is  the  world  about  them, 
they  know  better,  and  instead  of  striving 
from  uneasiness,  greet  it  as  an  habitual 
sensation,  a  pannier  which  is  to  weigh  upon 
them  through  life  —  And  in  proportion  to 
my  disgust  at  the  task  is  my  sense  of  your 
kindness  and  anxiety.  The  book  pleased 
me  much.  It  is  very  free  from  faults:  and, 
although  there  are  one  or  two  words  I 
should  wish  replaced,  I  see  in  many  places 
an  improvement  greatly  to  the  purpose. 

I  think  those  speeches  which  are  related 
—  those  parts  where  the  speaker  repeats 
a  speech,  such  as  Glaucus's  repetition  of 
Circe's  words,  should  have  inverted  com- 
mas to  every  line.  In  this  there  is  a  little 
confusion. — If  we  divide  the  speeches  into 


indentical  and  related;  and  to  the  former 
put  merely  one  inverted  Comma  at  the 
beginning  and  another  at  the  end;  and  to 
the  latter  inverted  Commas  before  every 
line,  the  book  will  be  better  understood  at 
the  1st  glance.  Look  at  pages  126,  127, 
you  will  find  in  the  3d  line  the  beginning 
of  a  related  speech  marked  thus  *  Ah  !  art 
awake  — '  while,  at  the  same  time,  in  the 
next  page  the  continuation  of  the  indentical 
speech  is  marked  in  the  same  manner, 
*  Young  man  of  Latmos  — '  You  will  find 
on  the  other  side  all  the  parts  which  should 
have  inverted  commas  to  every  line. 

I  was  proposing  to  travel  over  the  North 
this  summer.  There  is  but  one  thing  to 
prevent  me.  —  I  know  nothing  —  I  have 
read  nothing  —  and  I  mean  to  follow 
Solomon's  directions,  *  Get  learning  —  get 
understanding.'  I  find  earlier  days  are 
gone  by  —  I  find  that  I  can  have  no  enjoy- 
ment in  the  world  but  continual  drinking 
of  knowledge.  I  find  there  is  no  worthy 
pursuit  but  the  idea  of  doing  some  good  for 
the  world  —  Some  do  it  with  their  Society  — 
some  with  their  wit  —  some  with  their 
benevolence  —  some  with  a  sort  of  power 
of  conferring  pleasure  and  good-humour  on 
all  they  meet  —  and  in  a  thousand  ways,  all 
dutiful  to  the  command  of  great  Nature  — 
there  is  but  one  way  for  me.  The  road  lies 
through  application,  study,  and  thought.  — 
I  will  pursue  it ;  and  for  that  end,  purpose 
retiring  for  some  years.  I  have  been  hover- 
ing for  some  time  between  an  exquisite 
sense  of  the  luxurious,  and  a  love  for  philo- 
sophy, —  were  I  calculated  for  the  former, 
I  should  be  glad.  But  as  I  am  not,  I  shall 
turn  all  my  soul  to  the  latter.  —  My  brother 
Tom  is  getting  better,  and  I  hope  I  shall 
see  both  him  and  Reynolds  better  before  I 
retire  from  the  world.  I  shall  see  you 
soon,  and  have  some  talk  about  what  Books 
I  shall  take  with  me. 

Your  very  sincere  friend  JOHN  KEATS. 

Pray  remember  me  to  Hessey  Wood- 
house  and  Percy  Street. 


TO   JOHN    HAMILTON    REYNOLDS 


299 


50.      TO  JOHN  HAMILTON  REYNOLDS 

Teignmouth,  April  27,  1818. 

MY  DEAR  REYNOLDS  —  It  is  an  awful 
while  since  you  have  heard  from  me  —  I 
hope  I  may  not  be  punished,  when  I  see 
you  well,  and  so  anxious  as  you  always  are 
for  me,  with  the  remembrance  of  my  so 
seldom  writing  when  you  were  so  horribly 
confined.  The  most  unhappy  hours  in  our 
lives  are  those  in  which  we  recollect  times 
past  to  our  own  blushing  —  If  we  are  im- 
mortal that  must  be  the  Hell.  If  I  must 
be  immortal,  I  hope  it  will  be  after  having 
taken  a  little  of  '  that  watery  labyrinth '  in 
order  to  forget  some  of  my  school-boy  days 
and  others  since  those. 

I  have  heard  from  George  at  different 
times  how  slowly  you  were  recovering  —  It 
is  a  tedious  thing  —  but  all  Medical  Men 
will  tell  you  how  far  a  very  gradual  amend- 
ment is  preferable ;  you  will  be  strong  after 
this,  never  fear.  We  are  here  still  envel- 
oped in  clouds  —  I  lay  awake  last  night 
listening  to  the  Rain  with  a  sense  of  being 
drowned  and  rotted  like  a  grain  of  wheat. 
There  is  a  continual  courtesy  between  the 
Heavens  and  the  Earth.  The  heavens  rain 
down  their  unwelcomeness,  and  the  Earth 
sends  it  up  again  to  be  returned  to-morrow. 
Tom  has  taken  a  fancy  to  a  physician  here, 
Dr.  Turton,  and  I  think  is  getting  better  — 
therefore  I  shall  perhaps  remain  here  some 
Months.  I  have  written  to  George  for 
some  Books  —  shall  learn  Greek,  and  very 
likely  Italian  —  and  in  other  ways  prepare 
myself  to  ask  Hazlitt  in  about  a  year's 
time  the  best  metaphysical  road  I  can  take. 
For  although  I  take  poetry  to  be  Chief,  yet 
there  is  something  else  wanting  to  one  who 
passes  his  life  among  Books  and  thoughts 
on  Books  —  I  long  to  feast  upon  old  Homer 
as  we  have  upon  Shakspeare,  and  as  I  have 
lately  upon  Milton.  If  you  understood 
Greek,  and  would  read  me  passages,  now 
and  then,  explaining  their  meaning,  't  would 
be,  from  its  mistiness,  perhaps,  a  greater 
tuxury  than  reading  the  thing  one's  self.  I 


shall  be  happy  when  I  can  do  the  same  for 
you.  I  have  written  for  my  folio  Shak- 
speare, in  which  there  are  the  first  few 
stanzas  of  my  '  Pot  of  Basil.'  I  have  the 
rest  here  finished,  and  will  copy  the  whole 
out  fair  shortly,  and  George  will  bring  it 
you  —  The  compliment  is  paid  by  us  to 
Boccace,  whether  we  publish  or  no:  so 
there  is  content  in  this  world  —  mine  is 
short  —  you  must  be  deliberate  about 
yours:  you  must  not  think  of  it  till  many 
months  after  you  are  quite  well :  —  then 
put  your  passion  to  it,  and  I  shall  be  bound 
up  with  you  in  the  shadows  of  Mind,  as  we 
are  in  our  matters  of  human  life.  Perhaps 
a  Stanza  or  two  will  not  be  too  foreign  to 
your  Sickness. 

[Here  are  inserted  stanzas  xii.,  xiii.,  and  xxx.] 

I  heard  from  Rice  this  morning  —  very 
witty  —  and  have  just  written  to  Bailey. 
Don't  you  think  I  am  brushing  up  in  the 
letter  way  ?  and  being  in  for  it,  you  shall 
hear  again  from  me  very  shortly:  —  if 
you  will  promise  not  to  put  hand  to  paper 
for  me  until  you  can  do  it  with  a  tolerable 
ease  of  health  —  except  it  be  a  line  or  two. 
Give  my  Love  to  your  Mother  and  Sisters. 
Remember  me  to  the  Butlers  —  not  forget- 
ting Sarah. 

Your  affectionate  Friend  JOHN  KEATS. 


51.      TO  THE  SAME 

Teignmouth,  May  3d  [1818]. 
MY  DEAR  REYNOLDS  —  What  I  complain 
of  is  that  I  have  been  in  so  uneasy  a  state 
of  Mind  as  not  to  be  fit  to  write  to  an 
invalid.  I  cannot  write  to  any  length 
under  a  disguised  feeling.  I  should  have 
loaded  you  with  an  addition  of  gloom,  which 
I  am  sure  you  do  not  want.  I  am  now 
thank  God  in  a  humour  to  give  you  a  good 
groat's  worth  —  for  Tom,  after  a  Night 
without  a  Wink  of  sleep,  and  over-bur- 
thened  with  fever,  has  got  up  after  a 
refreshing  day-sleep  and  is  better  than  he 
has  been  for  a  long  time;  and  you  I  trust 


300 


LETTERS    OF  JOHN   KEATS 


have  been  again  round  the  common  without 
any  effect  but  refreshment.  As  to  the 
Matter  I  hope  I  can  say  with  Sir  Andrew 
'  I  have  matter  enough  in  my  head  '  in  your 
favour  —  And  now,  in  the  second  place,  for 
I  reckon  that  I  have  finished  my  Imprimis, 
I  am  glad  you  blow  up  the  weather  —  all 
through  your  letter  there  is  a  leaning  to- 
wards a  climate-curse,  and  you  know  what 
a  delicate  satisfaction  there  is  in  having  a 
vexation  anathematised:  one  would  think 
there  has  been  growing  up  for  these  last 
four  thousand  years,  a  grand-child  Scion 
of  the  old  forbidden  tree,  and  that  some 
modern  Eve  had  just  violated  it;  and  that 
there  was  come  with  double  charge 

'  Notus  and  Af  er,  black  with  thundrous  clouds 
From  Serraliona  — ' 

I  shall  breathe  worsted  stockings  87  sooner 
than  I  thought  for  —  Tom  wants  to  be  in 
Town  —  we  will  have  some  such  days  upon 
the  heath  like  that  of  last  summer  —  and 
why  not  with  the  same  book  ?  or  what  say 
you  to  a  black  Letter  Chaucer,  printed  in 
1596:  aye  I  've  got  one  huzza  !  I  shall 
have  it  bound  en  gothique  —  a  nice  sombre 
binding  —  it  will  go  a  little  way  to  tin- 
modernise.  And  also  1  see  no  reason, 
because  I  have  been  away  this  last  month, 
why  I  should  not  have  a  peep  at  your 
Spenserian  —  notwithstanding  you  speak  of 
your  office,  in  my  thought  a  little  too  early, 
for  I  do  not  see  why  a  Mind  like  yours  is 
not  capable  of  harbouring  and  digesting 
the  whole  Mystery  of  Law  as  easily  as 
Parson  Hugh  does  pippins,  which  did  not 
hinder  him  from  his  poetic  canary.  Were  I 
to  study  physic  or  rather  Medicine  again, 
I  feel  it  would  not  make  the  least  differ- 
ence in  my  Poetry ;  when  the  mind  is  in  its 
infancy  a  Bias  is  in  reality  a  Bias,  but  when 
we  have  acquired  more  strength,  a  Bias 
becomes  no  Bias.  Every  department  of 
Knowledge  we  see  excellent  and  calculated 
towards  a  great  whole  —  I  am  so  convinced 
of  this  that  I  am  glad  at  not  having  given 
away  my  medical  Books,  which  I  shall 


again  look  over  to  keep  alive  the  little  I 
know  thitherwards;  and  moreover  intend 
through  you  and  Rice  to  become  a  sort 
of  pip-civilian.  An  extensive  knowledge 
is  needful  to  thinking  people  —  it  takes 
away  the  heat  and  fever;  and  helps,  by 
widening  speculation,  to  ease  the  Burden 
of  the  Mystery,  a  thing  which  I  begin  to 
understand  a  little,  and  which  weighed 
upon  you  in  the  most  gloomy  and  true 
sentence  in  your  Letter.  The  difference  of 
high  Sensations  with  and  without  know- 
ledge appears  to  me  this:  in  the  latter  case 
we  are  falling  continually  ten  thousand 
fathoms  deep  and  being  blown  up  again, 
without  wings,  and  with  all  horror  of  a 
bare-shouldered  Creature — in  the  former 
case,  our  shoulders  are  fledged,  and  we  go 
through  the  same  air  and  space  without 
fear.  This  is  running  one's  rigs  on  the 
score  of  abstracted  benefit  —  when  we  come 
to  human  Life  and  the  affections,  it  is  im- 
possible to  know  how  a  parallel  of  breast 
and  head  can  be  drawn  (you  will  forgive 
me  for  thus  privately  treading  out  of  my 
depth,  and  take  it  for  treading  as  school- 
boys tread  the  water) ;  it  is  impossible  to 
know  how  far  knowledge  will  console  us 
for  the  death  of  a  friend,  and  the  ill  '  that 
flesh  is  heir  to.'  With  respect  to  the  affec- 
tions and  Poetry  you  must  know  by  a  sym- 
pathy my  thoughts  that  way,  and  I  daresay 
these  few  lines  will  be  but  a  ratification: 
I  wrote  them  on  Mayday  —  and  intend  to 
finish  the  ode  all  in  good  time  — 

'  Mother  of  Hermes  !  and  still  youthful  Maia ! ' 
[See  p.  119.] 

You  may  perhaps  be  anxious  to  know  for 
fact  to  what  sentence  in  your  Letter  I 
allude.  You  say,  'I  fear  there  is  little 
chance  of  anything  else  in  this  life '  —  you 
seem  by  that  to  have  been  going  through 
with  a  more  painful  and  acute  zest  the 
same  labyrinth  that  I  have  —  I  have  come 
to  the  same  conclusion  thus  far.  My 
Branchings  out  therefrom  have  been  nu- 
merous: one  of  them  is  the  consideration 


TO   JOHN   HAMILTON    REYNOLDS 


301 


of  Wordsworth's  genius  and  as  a  help,  in 
the  manner  of  gold  being  the  meridian 
Line  of  worldly  wealth,  how  he  differs 
from  Milton.  And  here  I  have  nothing 
but  surmises,  from  an  uncertainty  whether 
Milton's  apparently  less  anxiety  for  Hu- 
manity proceeds  from  his  seeing  further  or 
not  than  Wordsworth:  And  whether  Words- 
worth has  in  truth  epic  passion,  and  mar- 
tyrs himself  to  the  human  heart,  the  main 
region  of  his  song.  In  regard  to  his  genius 
alone  —  we  find  what  he  says  true  as  far 
as  we  have  experienced,  and  we  can  judge 
no  further  but  by  larger  experience  —  for 
axioms  in  philosophy  are  not  axioms  until 
they  are  proved  upon  our  pulses.  We  read 
fine  things,  but  never  feel  them  to  the  full 
until  we  have  gone  the  same  steps  as  the 
author.  —  I  know  this  is  not  plain;  you  will 
know  exactly  my  meaning  when  I  say  that 
now  I  shall  relish  Hamlet  more  than  I  ever 
have  done  —  Or,  better  —  you  are  sensi- 
ble no  man  can  set  down  Venery  as  a  bes- 
tial or  joyless  thing  until  he  is  sick  of  it, 
and  therefore  all  philosophising  on  it  would 
be  mere  wording.  Until  we  are  sick,  we 
understand  not;  in  fine,  as  Byron  says, 
'  Knowledge  is  sorrow  ' ;  and  I  go  on  to  say 
that  '  Sorrow  is  wisdom '  —  and  further  for 
aught  we  can  know  for  certainty  « Wisdom 
is  folly '  —  So  you  see  how  I  have  run 
away  from  Wordsworth  and  Milton,  and 
shall  still  run  away  from  what  was  in  my 
head,  to  observe,  that  some  kind  of  letters 
are  good  squares,  others  handsome  ovals, 
and  other  some  orbicular,  others  spheroid 
—  and  why  should  not  there  be  another 
species  with  two  rough  edges  like  a  Rat- 
trap  ?  I  hope  you  will  find  all  my  long 
letters  of  that  species,  and  all  will  be  well ; 
for  by  merely  touching  the  spring  delicately 
and  ethereally,  the  rough-edged  will  fly 
immediately  into  a  proper  compactness; 
and  thus  you  may  make  a  good  wholesome 
loaf,  with  your  own  leaven  in  it,  of  my 
fragments  —  If  you  cannot  find  this  said 
Rat-trap  sufficiently  tractable,  alas  for  me, 
it  being  an  impossibility  in  grain  for  my  ink 


to  stain  otherwise :  If  I  scribble  long  letters 
I  must  play  my  vagaries  —  I  must  be  too 
heavy,  or  too  light,  for  whole  pages  —  I 
must  be  quaint  and  free  of  Tropes  and 
figures  —  I  must  play  my  draughts  as  I 
please,  and  for  my  advantage  and  your 
erudition,  crown  a  white  with  a  black,  or  a 
black  with  a  white,  and  move  into  black  or 
white,  far  and  near  as  I  please  —  I  must  go 
from  Hazlitt  to  Patmore,  and  make  Words- 
worth and  Coleman  play  at  leap-frog,  or 
keep  one  of  them  down  a  whole  half- 
holiday  at  fly-the-garter  — «  From  Gray  to 
Gay,  from  Little  to  Shakspeare.'  Also  as 
a  long  cause  requires  two  or  more  sittings 
of  the  Court,  so  a  long  letter  will  require 
two  or  more  sittings  of  the  Breech,  where- 
fore I  shall  resume  after  dinner  — 

Have  you  not  seen  a  Gull,  an  ore,  a  Sea- 
Mew,  or  anything  to  bring  this  Line  to  a 
proper  length,  and  also  fill  up  this  clear 
part;  that  like  the  Gull  I  may  dip  *  — 
I  hope,  not  out  of  sight  —  and  also,  like  a 
Gull,  I  hope  to  be  lucky  in  a  good-sized 
fish  —  This  crossing  a  letter  is  not  without 
its  association  —  for  chequer- work  leads  us 
naturally  to  a  Milkmaid,  a  Milkmaid  to 
Hogarth,  Hogarth  to  Shakspeare  —  Shak- 
speare to  Hazlitt  —  Hazlitt  to  Shakspeare 

—  and  thus  by  merely  pulling  an  apron- 
string  we  set  a  pretty  peal  of  Chimes  at 
work  —  Let   them   chime   on   while,   with 
your  patience,  I  will  return  to  Wordsworth 

—  whether  or  no  he  has  an  extended  vision 
or  a  circumscribed  grandeur  —  whether  he 
is  an  eagle  in  his  nest  or  on  the  wing  — 
And  to  be  more  explicit  and  to  show  you 
how  tall  I  stand  by  the  giant,  I  will  put 
down  a  simile  of  human  life  as  far  as  I 
now  perceive  it;  that  is,  to  the  point   to 
which  I  say  we  both   have  arrived   at  — 
Well — I  compare  human  life  to  a  large 
Mansion  of  Many  apartments,  two  of  which 
I  can  only  describe,  the  doors  of  the  rest 

*  The  crossing  of  the  letter,  begun  at  the 
words  'Have  you  not,'  here  dips  into  the  ori- 
ginal writing. 


302 


LETTERS   OF  JOHN   KEATS 


being  as  yet  shut  upon  me  —  The  first  we 
step  into  we  call  the  infant  or  thoughtless 
Chamber,  in  which  we  remain  as  long  as 
we  do  not  think  —  We  remain  there  a  long 
while,  and  notwithstanding  the  doors  of  the 
second  Chamber  remain  wide  open,  showing 
a  bright  appearance,  we  care  not  to  hasten 
to  it;  but  are  at  length  imperceptibly  im- 
pelled by  the  awakening  of  the  thinking 
principle  within  us  —  we  no  sooner  get  into 
the  second  Chamber,  which  I  shall  call  the 
Chamber  of  Maiden-Thought,  than  we  be- 
come intoxicated  with  the  light  and  the 
atmosphere,  we  see  nothing  but  pleasant 
wonders,  and  think  of  delaying  there  for 
ever  in  delight:  However  among  the  effects 
this  breathing  is  father  of  is  that  tre- 
mendous one  of  sharpening  one's  vision 
into  the  heart  and  nature  of  Man  —  of  con- 
vincing one's  nerves  that  the  world  is  full 
of  Misery  and  Heart-break,  Pain,  Sickness, 
and  oppression  —  whereby  this  Chamber 
of  Maiden -Thought  becomes  gradually 
darkened,  and  at  the  same  time,  on  all 
sides  of  it,  many  doors  are  set  open  —  but 
all  dark  —  all  leading  to  dark  passages  — 
We  see  not  the  balance  of  good  and  evil 
—  we  are  in  a  mist  —  we  are  now  in  that 
state  —  We  feel  the  « burden  of  the  Mys- 
tery.' To  this  point  was  Wordsworth  come, 
as  far  as  I  can  conceive,  when  he  wrote 
4  Tintern  Abbey,'  and  it  seems  to  me  that 
his  ^Genius  is  explorative  of  those  dark 
Passages.  Now  if  we  live,  and  go  on  think- 
ing, we  too  shall  explore  them  —  He  is  a 
genius  and  superior  to  us,  in  so  far  as  he 
can,  more  than  we,  make  discoveries  and 
shed  a  light  in  them  —  Here  I  must  think 
Wordsworth  is  deeper  than  Milton,  though 
I  think  it  has  depended  more  upon  the  gen- 
eral and  gregarious  advance  of  intellect, 
than  individual  greatness  of  Mind  —  From 
the  Paradise  Lost  and  the  other  Works  of 
Milton,  I  hope  it  is  not  too  presuming,  even 
between  ourselves,  to  say,  that  his  philoso- 
phy, human  and  divine,  may  be  tolerably 
understood  by  one  not  much  advanced  in 
years.  In  his  time,  Englishmen  were  just 


emancipated  from  a  great  superstition,  and 
Men  had  got  hold  of  certain  points  and 
resting-places  in  reasoning  which  were  too 
newly  born  to  be  doubted,  and  too  much 
opposed  by  the  Mass  of  Europe  not  to  be 
thought  ethereal  and  authentically  divine 

—  Who  could  gainsay  his  ideas  on  virtue, 
vice,  and  Chastity  in  Comus,  just  at  the 
time  of  the  dismissal  of  a   hundred   dis- 
graces ?  who  would  not  rest  satisfied  with 
his  hintings  at  good  and  evil  in  the  Paradise 
Lost,  when  just  free  from  the  Inquisition 
and  burning  in  Smithfield  ?    The  Reforma- 
tion produced  such  immediate  and   great 
benefits,  that  Protestantism  was  considered 
under  the  immediate  eye  of  heaven,  and  its 
own  remaining  Dogmas  and  superstitions 
then,  as  it  were,  regenerated,  constituted 
those  resting-places  and  seeming  sure  points 
of   Reasoning  —  from   that   I   have   men- 
tioned,   Milton,    whatever    he    may   have 
thought  in  the  sequel,  appears  to  have  been 
content   with  these  by  his  writings  —  He 
did   not   think   into   the   human    heart   as 
Wordsworth  has  done  —  Yet  Milton  as  a 
Philosopher  had  sure  as  great  powers  as 
Wordsworth  —  What   is    then    to   be    in- 
ferred ?     O  many  things  —  It  proves  there 
is  really  a  grand  march  of  intellect,  —  It 
proves  that  a  mighty  providence    subdues 
the  mightiest  Minds  to  the  service  of  the 
time  being,  whether  it  be  in  human  Know- 
ledge or  Religion.     I  have  often  pitied  a 
tutor   who   has   to   hear  '  Nom.  Musa '  so 
often   dinn'd   into  his   ears  —  I   hope  you 
may  not  have  the  same  pain  in  this  scrib- 
bling —  I   may   have   read    these   things 
before,  but  I  never  had  evsn  a  thus  dim 
perception  of  them;  and  moreover  I  like  to 
say  my  lesson  to  one  who  will  endure  my 
tediousness  for  my  own  sake  —  After  all 
there   is   certainly  something  real   in  the 
world  —  Moore's  present  to  Hazlitt  is  real 

—  I  like  that  Moore,  and  am  glad  I  saw 
him  at  the  Theatre  just  before  I  left  Town. 
Tom  has  spit  a  leetle  blood  this  afternoon, 
and  that  is  rather  a  damper  —  but  I  know 

—  the  truth  is  there  is  something  real  in  the 


TO    BENJAMIN    BAILEY 


303 


World.  Your  third  Chamber  of  Life  shall 
be  a  lucky  and  a  gentle  one  —  stored  with 
the  wine  of  love  —  and  the  Bread  of  Friend- 
ship —  When  you  see  George  if  he  should 
not  have  received  a  letter  from  me  tell  him 
he  will  find  one  at  home  most  likely  —  tell 
Bailey  I  hope  soon  to  see  him  —  Remember 
me  to  all.  The  leaves  have  been  out  here 
for  mony  a  day  —  I  have  written  to  George 
for  the  first  stanzas  of  my  Isabel  —  I  shall 
have  them  soon,  and  will  copy  the  whole  out 
for  you. 

Your  affectionate  Friend  JOHN  KEATS. 

52.      TO  MRS.  JEFFREY 

Honiton,  [May,  1818]. 

MY  DEAR  MRS.  JEFFREY  —  My  Brother 
has  borne  his  Journey  thus  far  remarkably 
well.  I  am  too  sensible  of  your  anxiety  for 
us  not  to  send  this  by  the  chaise  back 
for  you.  Give  our  goodbyes  to  Marrian 
and  Fanny.  Believe  me  we  shall  bear 
you  in  Mind  and  that  I  shall  write  soon. 

Yours  very  truly,  JOHN  KEATS. 

53.      TO  BENJAMIN  BAILEY 

Hampstead,  Thursday  [May  28,  1818]. 
MY  DEAR  BAILEY  —  I  should  have  an- 
swered your  Letter  on  the  Moment,  if  I 
could  have  said  yes  to  your  invitation. 
What  hinders  me  is  insuperable:  I  will  tell 
it  at  a  little  length.  You  know  my  Brother 
George  has  been  out  of  employ  for  some 
time:  it  has  weighed  very  much  upon  him, 
and  driven  him  to  scheme  and  turn  over 
things  in  his  Mind.  The  result  has  been 
his  resolution  to  emigrate  to  the  back 
Settlements  of  America,  become  Farmer 
and  work  with  his  own  hands,  after  pur- 
chasing 14  hundred  acres  of  the  American 
Government.  This  for  many  reasons  has 
met  with  my  entire  Consent  — and  the 
chief  one  is  this;  he  is  of  too  independent 
and  liberal  a  Mind  to  get  on  in  Trade  in 
this  Country,  in  which  a  generous  Man 
with  a  scanty  resource  must  be  ruined.  I 


would  sooner  he  should  till  the  ground  than 
bow  to  a  customer.  There  is  no  choice 
with  him :  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  the 
latter.  I  would  not  consent  to  his  going 
alone;  —  no  —  but  that  objection  is  done 
away  with:  he  will  marry  before  he  sets 
sail  a  young  lady  he  has  known  for  several 
years,  of  a  nature  liberal  and  highspirited 
enough  to  follow  him  to  the  Banks  of  the 
Mississippi.  He  will  set  off  in  a  month  or 
six  weeks,  and  you  will  see  how  I  should 
wish  to  pass  that  time  with  him.  —  And 
then  I  must  set  out  on  a  journey  of  my 
own.  Brown  and  I  are  going  a  pedestrian 
tour  through  the  north  of  England  and 
Scotland  as  far  as  John  o'  Grot's.  I  have 
this  morning  such  a  lethargy  that  I  cannot 
write.  •  The  reason  of  my  delaying  is  often- 
times from  this  feeling,  —  I  wait  for  a 
proper  temper.  Now  you  ask  for  an  im- 
mediate answer,  I  do  not  like  to  wait  even 
till  to-morrow.  However,  I  am  now  so 
depressed  that  I  have  not  an  idea  to  put  to 
paper  —  my  hand  feels  like  lead  —  and  yet 
it  is  an  unpleasant  numbness;  it  does  not 
take  away  the  pain  of  Existence.  I  don't 
know  what  to  write. 

Monday  [June  1], 

You  see  how  I  have  delayed;  and  even 
now  I  have  but  a  confused  idea  of  what  I 
should  be  about.  My  intellect  must  be  in 
a  degenerating  state  —  it  must  be  —  for 
when  I  should  be  writing  about  —  God 
knows  what  —  I  am  troubling  you  with 
moods  of  my  own  mind,  or  rather  body,  for 
mind  there  is  none.  I  am  in  that  temper 
that  if  I  were  under  water  I  would  scarcely 
kick  to  come  up  to  the  top  —  I  know  very 
well  't  is  all  nonsense  —  In  a  short  time  I 
hope  I  shall  be  in  a  temper  to  feel  sensibly 
your  mention  of  my  book.  In  vain  have  I 
waited  till  Monday  to  have  any  Interest  in 
that  or  anything  else.  I  feel  no  spur  at 
my  Brother's  going  to  America,  and  am 
almost  stony-hearted  about  his  wedding. 
All  this  will  blow  over  —  All  I  am  sorry 
for  is  having  to  write  to  you  in  such  a  time 
—  but  I  cannot  force  my  letters  in  a  hot- 


3°4 


LETTERS    OF   JOHN    KEATS 


bed.  I  could  not  feel  comfortable  in  mak- 
ing sentences  for  you.  I  am  your  debtor 
—  I  must  ever  remain  so  —  nor  do  I  wish 
to  be  clear  of  any  Rational  debt:  there  is 
a  comfort  in  throwing  oneself  on  the  charity 
of  one's  friends  —  'tis  like  the  albatross 
sleeping  on  its  wings.  I  will  be  to  you 
wine  in  the  cellar,  and  the  more  modestly, 
or  rather,  indolently,  I  retire  into  the  back- 
ward bin,  the  more  Falerne  will  I  be  at  the 
drinking.  There  is  one  thing  I  must  men- 
tion—  my  Brother  talks  of  sailing  in  a 
fortnight  —  if  so  I  will  most  probably  be 
with  you  a  week  before  I  set  out  for  Scot- 
land. The  middle  of  your  first  page  should 
be  sufficient  to  rouse  me.  What  I  said  is 
true,  and  I  have  dreamt  of  your  mention  of 
it,  and  my  not  answering  it  has  weighed  on 
me  since.  If  I  come,  I  will  bring  your  letter, 
and  hear  more  fully  your  sentiments  on  one 
or  two  points.  I  will  call  about  the  Lec- 
tures at  Taylor's,  and  at  Little  Britain,  to- 
morrow. Yesterday  I  dined  with  Hazlitt, 
Barnes,  and  Wilkie,  at  Haydon's.  The 
topic  was  the  Duke  of  Wellington  —  very 
amusingly  pro-and-con'd.  Reynolds  has 
been  getting  much  better;  and  Rice  may 
begin  to  crow,  for  he  got  a  little  so-so  at  a 
party  of  his,  and  was  none  the  worse  for  it 
the  next  morning.  I  hope  I  shall  soon  see 
you,  for  we  must  have  many  new  thoughts 
and  feelings  to  analyse,  and  to  discover 
whether  a  little  more  knowledge  has  not 
made  us  more  ignorant. 

Yours  affectionately        JOHN  KEATS. 

54.      TO  MISSES  M.  AND  S.  JEFFREY 

Hampstead,  June  4th  [1818.] 
MY  DEAR  GIRLS  —  I  will  not  pretend  to 
string  a  list  of  excuses  together  for  not 
having  written  before  —  but  must  at  once 
confess  the  indolence  of  my  disposition, 
which  makes  a  letter  more  formidable  to  me 
than  a  Pilgrimage.  I  am  a  fool  in  delay  for 
the  idea  of  neglect  is  an  everlasting  Knap- 
sack which  even  now  I  have  scarce  power  to 
hoist  off.  By  the  bye  talking  of  everlast- 


ing Knapsacks  I  intend  to  make  my  fortune 
by  them  in  case  of  a  War  (which  you  must 
consequently  pray  for)  by  contracting  with 
Government  for  said  material  to  the  econ- 
omy of  one  branch  of  the  Revenue.  At 
all  events  a  Tax  which  is  taken  from  the 
people  and  shoulder'd  upon  the  Military 
ought  not  to  be  snubb'd  at.  I  promised 
to  send  you  all  the  news.  Harkee  !  The 
whole  city  corporation,  with  a  deputation 
from  the  Fire  Offices  are  now  engaged  at 
the  London  Coffee  house  in  secret  conclave 
concerning  Saint  Paul's  Cathedral  its  being 
washed  clean.  Many  interesting  speeches 
have  been  demostheuized  in  said  Coffee 
house  as  to  the  Cause  of  the  black  appear- 
ance of  the  said  Cathedral.  One  of  the 
veal-thigh  Aldermen  actually  brought  up 
three  Witnesses  to  depose  how  they  beheld 
the  ci-devant  fair  Marble  turn  black  on  the 
tolling  of  the  great  Bell  for  the  amiable 
and  tea-table-lamented  Princess  —  adding 
moreover  that  this  sort  of  sympathy  in  in- 
animate objects  was  by  no  means  uncom- 
mon for  said  the  Gentleman  *  As  we  were 
once  debating  in  the  Common  Hall  Mr. 
Waithman  in  illustration  of  some  case  in 
point  quoted  Peter  Pindar,  at  which  the 
head  of  George  the  third  although  in  hard 
marble  squinted  over  the  Mayor's  seat  at 
the  honorable  speaker  so  oddly  that  he  was 
obliged  to  sit  down.'  However  I  will  not 
tire  you  about  these  Affairs  for  they  must 
be  in  your  Newspapers  by  this  time.  You 
see  how  badly  I  have  written  these  last 
three  lines  so  I  will  remain  here  and  take 
a  pinch  of  snuff  every  five  Minutes  until 
my  head  becomes  fit  and  proper  and  legiti- 
mately inclined  to  scribble  —  Oh  !  there 's 
nothing  like  a  pinch  of  snuff  except  perhaps 
a  few  trifles  almost  beneath  a  philosopher's 
dignity,  such  as  a  ripe  Peach  or  a  Kiss  that 
one  takes  on  a  lease  of  91  moments  —  on  a 
baildling  lease.  Talking  of  that  is  the  Captn 
married  yet,  or  rather  married  Miss  Mitchel 
—  is  she  stony  hearted  enough  to  hold  out 
this  season  ?  Has  the  Doctor  given  Miss 
Ferryman  a  little  love  powder  ?  —  tell  him 


TO   BENJAMIN   BAILEY 


305 


to  do  so.  It  really  would  not  be  unamusing 
to  see  her  languish  a  little  —  Oh  she  must 
be  quite  melting  this  hot  Weather.  Are 
the  little  Robins  weaned  yet  ?  Do  they 
walk  alone  ?  You  have  had  a  christening 
a  top  o'  the  tiles  and  a  Hawk  has  stood 
Godfather  and  taken  the  little  brood  under 
the  Shadows  of  its  Wings  much  in  the  way 
of  Mother  Church  —  a  Cat  too  has  very 
tender  bowels  in  such  pathetic  cases.  They 
say  we  are  all  (that  is  our  set)  mad  at 
Hampstead.  There's  George  took  unto 
himself  a  Wife  a  Week  ago  and  will  in  a 
little  time  sail  for  America  —  and  I  with  a 
friend  am  preparing  for  a  four  Months 
Walk  all  over  the  North  —  and  belike  Tom 
will  not  stop  here  —  he  has  been  getting 
much  better  —  Lord  what  a  Journey  I  had 
and  what  a  relief  at  the  end  of  it  —  I  'm 
sure  I  could  not  have  stood  it  many  more 
days.  Hampstead  is  now  in  fine  order.  I 
suppose  Teignmouth  and  the  contagious 
country  is  now  quite  remarkable  —  you 
might  praise  it  I  dare  say  in  the  manner  of 
a  grammatical  exercise  —  The  trees  are  full 

—  the  den  is  crowded  —  the  boats  are  sail- 
ing —  the  musick  is  playing.     I  wish  you 
were   here   a  little   while  —  but   lauk   we 
have  n't  got  any  female  friend  in  the  house. 
Tom  is  taken  for  a  Madman  and  I  being 
somewhat  stunted  am  taken  for  nothing  — 
We  lounge  on  the  Walk  opposite  as  you 
might  on  the  Den  —  I  hope  the  fine  season 
will  keep  up  your  Mother's  Spirits  —  she 
was  used  to  be  too  much  down  hearted. 
No  Women  ought  to  be  born  into  the  world 
for  they  may  not  touch  the  bottle  for  shame 

—  now  a  Man  may  creep  into  a  bung-hole 

—  However  this  is  a  tale  of  a  tub  —  how- 
ever I  like  to  play  upon  a  pipe  sitting  upon 
a  puncheon  and  intend  to  be  so  drawn  in 
the  frontispiece  to  my  next  book  of  Pas- 
torals —  My  Brothers'  respects  and  mine  to 
your  Mother  and  all  our  Loves  to  you. 

Yours  very  sincerely,       JOHN  KEATS. 
P.  S.  has  many  significations  —  here  it 
signifies  Post  Script  —  on  the  corner  of  a 


Handkerchef  Polly  Saunders  —  Upon  a 
Garter  Pretty  Secret  —  Upon  a  Band  Box 
Pink  Sattin  —  At  the  Theatre  Princes  Side 
—  on  a  Pulpit  Parson's  Snuffle  —  and  at  a 
Country  Ale  House  Pail  Sider. 

55.      TO  BENJAMIN  BAILEY 

London  [June  10,  1818]. 
MY  DEAR  BAILEY  —  I  have  been  very 
much  gratified  and  very  much  hurt  by  your 
letters  in  the  Oxford  Paper:  because  in- 
dependent of  that  unlawful  and  mortal  feel- 
ing of  pleasure  at  praise,  there  is  a  glory  in 
enthusiasm ;  and  because  the  world  is  malig- 
nant enough  to  chuckle  at  the  most  honour- 
able Simplicity.  Yes,  on  my  soul,  my  dear 
Bailey,  you  are  too  simple  for  the  world  — 
and  that  Idea  makes  me  sick  of  it.  How 
is  it  that  by  extreme  opposites  we  have, 
as  it  were,  got  discontented  nerves  ?  You 
have  all  your  life  (I  think  so)  believed 
everybody.  I  have  suspected  everybody. 
And,  although  you  have  been  so  deceived, 
you  make  a  simple  appeal  —  the  world  has 
something  else  to  do,  and  I  am  glad  of  it  — 
Were  it  in  my  choice,  I  would  reject  a 
Petrarchal  coronation  —  on  account  of  my 
dying  day,  and  because  women  have  cancers. 
I  should  not  by  rights  speak  in  this  tone  to 
you  for  it  is  an  incendiary  spirit  that  would 
do  so.  Yet  I  am  not  old  enough  or  magnan- 
imous enough  to  annihilate  self  —  and  it 
would  perhaps  be  paying  you  an  ill  compli- 
ment. I  was  in  hopes  some  little  time 
back  to  be  able  to  relieve  your  dulness  by 
my  spirits — to  point  out  things  in  the 
world  worth  your  enjoyment  —  and  now  I 
am  never  alone  without  rejoicing  that  there 
is  such  a  thing  as  death  —  without  placing 
my  ultimate  in  the  glory  of  dying  for  a 
great  human  purpose.  Perhaps  if  my  affairs 
were  in  a  different  state,  I  should  not  have 
written  the  above  —  you  shall  judge:  I 
have  two  brothers;  one  is  driven,  by  the 
'burden  of  Society,'  to  America;  the  other 
with  an  exquisite  love  of  life,  is  in  a  linger- 


306 


LETTERS    OF   JOHN    KEATS 


ing  state  —  My  love  for  my  Brothers,  from 
the  early  loss  of  our  Parents,  and  even 
from  earlier  misfortunes,  has  grown  into 
an  affection  'passing  the  love  of  women.' 
I  have  been  ill-tempered  with  them  —  I 
have  vexed  them  —  but  the  thought  of 
them  has  always  stifled  the  impression  that 
any  woman  might  otherwise  have  made 
upon  me.  I  have  a  sister  too,  and  may  not 
follow  them  either  to  America  or  to  the 
grave.  Life  must  be  undergone,  and  I 
certainly  derive  some  consolation  from  the 
thought  of  writing  one  or  two  more  poems 
before  it  ceases. 

I  have  heard  some  hints  of  your  retiring 
to  Scotland  —  I  shall  like  to  know  your 
feeling  on  it  —  it  seems  rather  remote. 
Perhaps  Gleig  will  have  a  duty  near  you. 
I  am  not  certain  whether  I  shall  be  able  to 
go  any  journey,  on  account  of  my  Brother 
Tom,  and  a  little  indisposition  of  my  own. 
If  I  do  not  you  shall  see  me  soon,  if  no  011 
my  return  or  I  '11  quarter  myself  on  you 
next  winter.  I  had  known  my  sister-in-law 
some  time  before  she  was  my  sister,  and 
was  very  fond  of  her.  I  like  her  better 
and  better.  She  is  the  most  disinterested 
woman  I  ever  knew  —  that  is  to  say,  she 
goes  beyond  degree  in  it.  To  see  an  en- 
tirely disinterested  girl  quite  happy  is  the 
most  pleasant  and  extraordinary  thing  in 
the  world  —  It  depends  upon  a  thousand 
circumstances — On  my  word  it  is  extra- 
ordinary. Women  must  want  Imagination, 
and  they  may  thank  God  for  it;  and  so 
may  we,  that  a  delicate  being  can  feel 
happy  without  any  sense  of  crime.  It  puz- 
zles me,  and  I  have  no  sort  of  logic  to 
comfort  me  —  I  shall  think  it  over.  I  am 
not  at  home,  and  your  letter  being  there  I 
cannot  look  it  over  to  answer  any  particular 
—  only  I  must  say  I  feel  that  passage  of 
Dante.  If  I  take  any  book  with  me  it 
shall  be  those  minute  volumes  of  Carey,  for 
they  will  go  into  the  aptest  corner. 

Reynolds  is  getting,  I  may  say,  robust, 
his  illness  has  been  of  service  to  him  —  like 
every  one  just  recovered,  he  is  high-spirited 


—  I  hear  also  good  accounts  of  Rice.  With 
respect  to  domestic  literature,  the    Edin- 
burgh Magazine,  in  another  blow-up  against 
Hunt,  calls  me  « the  amiable  Mister  Keats ' 

—  and   I   have   more    than   a  laurel  from 
the    Quarterly    Reviewers   for    they   have 
smothered  me  in  Foliage.     I  want  to  read 
you  my  «  Pot  of  Basil '  —  if  you  go  to  Scot- 
land, I  should  much  like  to  read  it  there  to 
you,  among  the  snows  of  next  winter.     My 
Brothers'  remembrances  to  you. 

Your  affectionate  friend  JOHN  KEATS. 


56.      TO  JOHN  TAYLOR 

[Hampstead,]  Sunday  Evening 
[June  21,  1818]. 

MY  DEAR  TAYLOR  —  I  am  sorry  I  have 
not  had  time  to  call  and  wish  you  health 
till  my  return  —  Really  I  have  been  hard 
run  these  last  three  days  —  However,  au 
revoir,  God  keep  us  all  well  !  I  start  to- 
morrow Morning.  My  brother  Tom  will  I 
am  afraid  be  lonely.  I  can  scarce  ask  a 
loan  of  books  for  him,  since  I  still  keep 
those  you  lent  me  a  year  ago.  If  I  am 
overweening,  you  will  I  know  be  indulgent. 
Therefore  when  you  shall  write,  do  send 
him  some  you  think  will  be  most  amus- 
ing—  he  will  be  careful  in  returning  them. 
Let  him  have  one  of  my  books  bound.  I 
am  ashamed  to  catalogue  these  messages. 
There  is  but  one  more,  which  ought  to  go 
for  nothing  as  there  is  a  lady  concerned. 
I  promised  Mrs.  Reynolds  one  of  my  books 
bound.  As  I  cannot  write  in  it  let  the 
opposite  38  be  pasted  in  'prythee.  Remem- 
ber me  to  Percy  St.  —  Teli  Hilton  that  one 
gratification  on  my  return  will  be  to  find 
him  engaged  on  a  history  piece  to-  his  own 
content  —  And  tell  Dewint  I  shall  become 
a  disputant  on  the  landscape  —  Bow  for 
me  very  genteelly  to  Mrs.  D.  or  she  will 
not  admit  your  diploma.  Remember  me 
to  Hessey,  saying  I  hope  he  '11  Gary  his 
point.  I  would  not  forget  Woodhouse. 
Adieu  ! 

Your  sincere  friend      JOHN  o'  GROTS. 


TO   THOMAS    KEATS 


307 


57.      TO  THOMAS  KEATS 

Keswick,  June  29th  [1818]. 
MY  DEAR  TOM  —  I  cannot  make  my 
Journal  as  distinct  and  actual  as  I  could 
wish,  from  having  been  engaged  in  writing 
to  George,  and  therefore  I  must  tell  you 
without  circumstance  that  we  proceeded 
from  Ambleside  to  Rydal,  saw  the  Water- 
falls there,  and  called  on  Wordsworth,  who 
was  not  at  home,  nor  was  any  one  of  his 
family.  I  wrote  a  note  and  left  it  on  the 
mantel-piece.  Thence  on  we  came  to  the 
foot  of  Helvellyn,  where  we  slept,  but 
could  not  ascend  it  for  the  mist.  I  must 
mention  that  from  Rydal  we  passed  Thirls- 
water,  and  a  fine  pass  in  the  Mountains  — 
from  Helvellyn  we  came  to  Keswick  on 
Derwent  Water.  The  approach  to  Derwent 
Water  surpassed  Windermere  —  it  is  richly 
wooded,  and  shut  in  with  rich-toned  Moun- 
tains. From  Helvellyn  to  Keswick  was 
eight  miles  to  Breakfast,  after  which  we 
took  a  complete  circuit  of  the  Lake,  going 
about  ten  miles,  and  seeing  on  our  way  the 
Fall  of  Lowdore.  I  had  an  easy  climb 
among  the  streams,  about  the  fragments  of 
Rocks  and  should  have  got  I  think  to  the 
summit,  but  unfortunately  I  was  damped 
by  slipping  one  leg  into  a  squashy  hole. 
There  is  no  great  body  of  water,  but  the 
accompaniment  is  delightful;  for  it  oozes 
out  from  a  cleft  in  perpendicular  Rocks,  all 
fledged  with  Ash  and  other  beautiful  trees. 
It  is  a  strange  thing  how  they  got  there. 
At  the  south  end  of  the  Lake,  the  Moun- 
tains of  Borrowdale  are  perhaps  as  fine  as 
anything  we  have  seen.  On  our  return 
from  this  circuit,  we  ordered  dinner,  and 
set  forth  about  a  mile  and  a  half  on  the 
Penrith  road,  to  see  the  Druid  temple. 
We  had  a  fag  up  hill,  rather  too  near 
dinner-time,  which  was  rendered  void  by 
the  gratification  of  seeing  those  aged  stones 
on  a  gentle  rise  in  the  midst  of  the  Moun- 
tains, which  at  that  time  darkened  all 
around,  except  at  the  fresh  opening  of  the 
Vale  of  St.  John.  We  went  to  bed  rather 


fatigued,  but  not  so  much  so  as  to  hinder 
us  getting  up  this  morning  to  mount  Skid- 
daw.  It  promised  all  along  to  be  fair,  and 
we  had  fagged  and  tugged  nearly  to  the  top, 
when,  at  half-past  six,  there  came  a  Mist 
upon  us  and  shut  out  the  view.  We  did  not, 
however,  lose  anything  by  it :  we  were  high 
enough  without  mist  to  see  the  coast  of 
Scotland  —  the  Irish  Sea  —  the  hills  beyond 
Lancaster  —  and  nearly  all  the  large  ones 
of  Cumberland  and  Westmoreland,  parti- 
cularly Helvellyn  and  Sea wf ell.  It  grew 
colder  and  colder  as  we  ascended,  and  we 
were  glad,  at  about  three  parts  of  the  way, 
to  taste  a  little  rum  which  the  Guide 
brought  with  him,  mixed,  mind  ye,  with 
Mountain  water.  I  took  two  glasses  going 
and  one  returning.  It  is  about  six  miles 
from  where  I  am  writing  to  the  top  —  So 
we  have  walked  ten  miles  before  Breakfast 
to-day.  We  went  up  with  two  others,  very 
good  sort  of  fellows  —  All  felt,  on  arising 
into  the  cold  air,  that  same  elevation  which 
a  cold  bath  gives  one  —  I  felt  as  if  I  were 
going  to  a  Tournament. 

Wordsworth's  house  is  situated  just  on 
the  rise  of  the  foot  of  Mount  Rydal;  his 
parlour-window  looks  directly  down  Win- 
andermere;  I  do  not  think  I  told  you  how 
fine  the  Vale  of  Grasmere  is,  and  how  I 
discovered  'the  ancient  woman  seated  on 
Helm  Crag '  —  We  shall  proceed  immedi- 
ately to  Carlisle,  intending  to  enter  Scot- 
land on  the  1st  of  July  via  — 

[Carlisle,]  July  1st. 

We  are  this  morning  at  Carlisle.  After 
Skiddaw,  we  walked  to  Treby  the  oldest 
market  town  in  Cumberland  —  where  we 
were  greatly  amused  by  a  country  dancing- 
school  holden  at  the  Tun,  it  was  indeed  '  no 
new  cotillon  fresh  from  France.'  No,  they 
kickit  and  jumpit  with  mettle  extraordi- 
nary, and  whiskit,  and  friskit,  and  toed  it, 
and  go'd  it,  and  twirl'd  it,  and  whirl'd  it, 
and  stamped  it,  and  sweated  it,  tattooing 
the  floor  like  mad.  The  difference  between 
our  country  dances  and  these  Scottish 


3o8 


LETTERS    OF   JOHN   KEATS 


figures  is  about  the  same  as  leisurely  stir- 
ring a  cup  o'  Tea  and  beating  up  a  batter- 
pudding.  I  was  extremely  gratified  to 
think  that,  if  I  had  pleasures  they  knew 
nothing  of,  they  had  also  some  into  which 
I  could  not  possibly  enter.  I  hope  I  shall 
not  return  without  having  got  the  Highland 
fling.  There  was  as  fine  a  row  of  boys  and 
girls  as  you  ever  saw;  some  beautiful  faces, 
and  one  exquisite  mouth.  I  never  felt  so 
near  the  glory  of  Patriotism,  the  glory 
of  making  by  any  means  a  country  hap- 
pier. This  is  what  I  like  better  than 
scenery.  I  fear  our  continued  moving 
from  place  to  place  will  prevent  our  be- 
coming learned  in  village  affairs:  we  are 
mere  creatures  of  Rivers,  Lakes,  and  Moun- 
tains. Our  yesterday's  journey  was  from 
Treby  to  Wigton,  and  from  Wigton  to 
Carlisle.  The  Cathedral  does  not  appear 
very  fine  —  the  Castle  is  very  ancient,  and 
of  brick.  The  City  is  very  various  —  old 
white- washed  narrow  streets  —  broad  red- 
brick ones  more  modern  —  I  will  tell  you 
anon  whether  the  inside  of  the  Cathedral 
is  worth  looking  at.  It  is  built  of  sandy 
red  stone  or  Brick.  We  have  now  walked 
114  miles,  and  are  merely  a  little  tired  in 
the  thighs,  and  a  little  blistered.  We  shall 
ride  38  miles  to  Dumfries,  when  we  shall 
linger  awhile  about  Nithsdale  and  Gallo- 
way. I  have  written  two  letters  to  Liver- 
pool. I  found  a  letter  from  sister  George; 
very  delightful  indeed:  I  shall  preserve  it 
in  the  bottom  of  my  knapsack  for  you. 

[Dumfries,  evening  of  same  day,  July  1.] 
You  will  see  by  this  sonnet  ['  On  visiting 
the  tomb  of  Burns.'  See  p.  120]  that  I  am 
at  Dumfries.  We  have  dined  in  Scotland. 
Burns's  tomb  is  in  the  Churchyard  corner, 
not  very  much  to  my  taste,  though  on  a 
scale  large  enough  to  show  they  wanted 
to  honour  him.  Mrs.  Burns  lives  in  this 
place;  most  likely  we  shall  see  her  to- 
morrow —  This  Sonnet  I  have  written  in  a 
strange  mood,  half-asleep.  I  know  not  how 
it  is,  the  Clouds,  the  Sky,  the  Houses,  all 


seem  anti-Grecian  and  anti-Charlemagnish. 
I  will  endeavour  to  get  rid  of  my  preju- 
dices and  tell  you  fairly  about  the  Scotch. 

[Dumfries,]  July  2nd. 

In  Devonshire  they  say,  'Well,  where 
be  ye  going?'  Here  it  is,  'How  is  it 
wi'  yoursel  ?  '  A  man  on  the  Coach  said 
the  horses  took  a  Hellish  heap  o'  drivin'; 
the  same  fellow  pointed  out  Burns's  Tomb 
with  a  deal  of  life  — '  There  de  ye  see  it, 
amang  the  trees  —  white,  wi'  a  roond  tap  ? ' 
The  first  well-dressed  Scotchman  we  had 
any  conversation  with,  to  our  surprise  con- 
fessed himself  a  Deist.  The  careful  man- 
ner of  delivering  his  opinions,  not  before 
he  had  received  several  encouraging  hints 
from  us,  was  very  amusing.  Yesterday 
was  an  immense  Horse-fair  at  Dumfries,  so 
that  we  met  numbers  of  men  and  women  on 
the  road,  the  women  nearly  all  barefoot, 
with  their  shoes  and  clean  stockings  in 
hand,  ready  to  put  on  and  look  smart  in  the 
Towns.  There  are  plenty  of  wretched  cot- 
tages whose  smoke  has  no  outlet  but  by 
the  door.  We  have  now  begun  upon 
Whisky,  called  here  Whuskey,  —  very 
smart  stuff  it  is.  Mixed  like  our  liquors, 
with  sugar  and  water,  'tis  called  toddy; 
very  pretty  drink,  and  much  praised  by 
Burns. 

58.      TO  FANNY  KEATS 

Dumfries,  July  2nd  [1818]. 
MY  DEAR  FANNY  —  I  intended  to  have 
written  to  you  from  Kirkcudbright,  the 
town  I  shall  be  in  to-morrow  —  but  I  will 
write  now  because  my  Knapsack  has  worn 
my  coat  in  the  Seams,  my  coat  has  gone  to 
the  Tailor's  and  I  have  but  one  Coat  to  my 
back  in  these  parts.  I  must  tell  you  how  I 
went  to  Liverpool  with  George  and  our 
new  Sister  and  the  Gentleman  my  fellow 
traveller  through  the  Summer  and  autumn 
—  We  had  a  tolerable  journey  to  Liver- 
pool —  which  I  left  the  next  morning  before 
George  was  up  for  Lancaster  —  Then  we 


TO   FANNY   KEATS 


309 


set  off  from  Lancaster  on  foot  with  our 
Knapsacks  on,  and  have  walked  a  Little 
zig-zag  through  the  mountains  and  Lakes 
of  Cumberland  and  Westmoreland  —  We 
came  from  Carlisle  yesterday  to  this  place 
—  We  are  employed  in  going  up  Moun- 
tains, looking  at  strange  towns,  prying  into 
old  ruins  and  eating  very  hearty  breakfasts. 
Here  we  are  full  in  the  Midst  of  broad 
Scotch  *  How  is  it  a'  wi'  yoursel '  —  the 
Girls  are  walking  about  bare-footed  and  in 
the  worst  cottages  the  smoke  finds  its  way 
out  of  the  door.  I  shall  come  home  full  of 
news  for  you  and  for  fear  I  should  choak 
you  by  too  great  a  dose  at  once  I  must 
make  you  used  to  it  by  a  letter  or  two. 
We  have  been  taken  for  travelling  Jewel- 
lers, Razor  sellers  and  Spectacle  vendors 
because  friend  Brown  wears  a  pair.  The 
first  place  we  stopped  at  with  our  Knapsacks 
contained  one  Richard  Bradshaw,  a  noto- 
rious tippler.  He  stood  in  the  shape  of  a  3 
and  ballanced  himself  as  well  as  he  could 
saying  with  his  nose  right  in  Mr.  Brown's 
face  '  Do  —  yo — u  sell  spect — ta — cles  ?  ' 
Mr.  Abbey  says  we  are  Don  Quixotes  — 
tell  him  we  are  more  generally  taken  for 
Pedlars.  All  I  hope  is  that  we  may  not  be 
taken  for  excisemen  in  this  whisky  coun- 
try. We  are  generally  up  about  5  walking 
before  breakfast  and  we  complete  our  20 
miles  before  dinner.  —  Yesterday  we  vis- 
ited Burns's  Tomb  and  this  morning  the 
fine  Ruins  of  Lincluden. 

[Aucheneairn,  same  day,  July  2.] 
I  had  done  thus  far  when  my  coat  came 
back  fortified  at  all  points  —  so  as  we  lose 
no  time  we  set  forth  again  through  Gallo- 
way—  all  very  pleasant  and  pretty  with 
no  fatigue  when  one  is  used  to  it  —  We  are 
in  the  midst  of  Meg  Merrilies's  country  of 
whom  I  suppose  you  have  heard. 
[Here  follow  the  lines,  'Meg  Merrilies,'  p.  243.] 
If  you  like  these  sort  of  ballads  I  will 
now  and  then  scribble  one  for  you  —  if  I 
send  any  to  Tom  I  '11  tell  him  to  send  them 
to  you. 


[Kirkcudbright,  evening  of  same  day,  July  2.] 
I  have  so  many  interruptions  that  I  can- 
not manage  to  fill  a  Letter  in  one  day  — 
since  I  scribbled  the  song  we  have  walked 
through  a  beautiful  Country  to  Kirkcud- 
bright —  at  which  place  I  will  write  you  a 
song  about  myself  — 

[Here  Keats  throws  off  the  nonsense  lines 
4  There  was  a  Naughty  Boy,'  given  in  the  Ap- 
pendix, p.  244.] 

[Newton  Stewart,  July  4.] 

My  dear  Fanny,  I  am  ashamed  of  writing 
you  such  stuff,  nor  would  I  if  it  were  not  for 
being  tired  after  my  day's  walking,  and 
ready  to  tumble  into  bed  so  fatigued  that 
when  I  am  asleep  you  might  sew  my  nose 
to  my  great  toe  and  trundle  me  round  the 
town,  like  a  Hoop,  without  waking  me. 
Then  I  get  so  hungry  a  Ham  goes  but  a 
very  little  way  and  fowls  are  like  Larks  to 
me  —  A  Batch  of  Bread  I  make  no  more 
ado  with  than  a  sheet  of  parliament  ;  and  I 
can  eat  a  Bull's  head  as  easily  as  I  used  to 
do  Bull's  eyes.  I  take  a  whole  string  of 
Pork  Sausages  down  as  easily  as  a  Pen'orth 
of  Lady's  fingers.  Ah  dear  I  must  soon  be 
contented  with  an  acre  or  two  of  oaten  cake 
a  hogshead  of  Milk  and  a  Clothes-basket  of 
Eggs  morning  noon  and  night  when  I  get 
among  the  Highlanders.  Before  we  see 
them  we  shall  pass  into  Ireland  and  have 
a  chat  with  the  Paddies,  and  look  at  the 
Giant's  Causeway  which  you  must  have 
heard  of  —  I  have  not  time  to  tell  you 
particularly  for  I  have  to  send  a  Journal 
to  Tom  of  whom  you  shall  hear  all  particu- 
lars or  from  me  when  I  return.  Since  I 
began  this  we  have  walked  sixty  miles  to 
Newton  Stewart  at  which  place  I  put  in  this 
Letter  —  to-night  we  sleep  at  Glenluce  — 
to-morrow  at  Portpatrick  and  the  next  day 
we  shall  cross  in  the  passage  boat  to  Ireland. 
I  hope  Miss  Abbey  has  quite  recovered. 
Present  my  Respects  to  her  and  to  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Abbey.  God  bless  you. 

Your  affectionate  Brother,  JOHN. 

Do  write  me  a  Letter  directed  to  Inver*- 
ness,  Scotland. 


LETTERS   OF   JOHN    KEATS 


59.      TO   THOMAS    KEATS 

Auchtercairn  [for  Auchencairn,] 

3rd  [for  2d]  July  1818. 

MY  DEAR  TOM  —  We  are  now  in  Meg 
Merrilies's  country,  and  have  this  morning 
passed  through  some  parts  exactly  suited 
to  her.  Kirkcudbright  County  is  very 
beautiful,  very  wild,  with  craggy  hills, 
somewhat  in  the  Westmoreland  fashion. 
We  have  come  down  from  Dumfries  to  the 
sea-coast  part  of  it.  The  following  song 
[the  Meg  Merrilies  piece]  you  will  have 
from  Dilke,  but  perhaps  you  would  like  it 
here. 

[Newton  Stewart,]  July  5th  [for  4th]. 
Yesterday  was  passed  in  Kirkcudbright, 
the  country  is  very  rich,  very  fine,  and  with 
a  little  of  Devon.  I  am  now  writing  at 
Newton  Stewart,  six  miles  into  Wigtown. 
Our  landlady  of  yesterday  said  very  few 
southerners  passed  hereaways.  The  chil- 
dren jabber  away,  as  if  in  a  foreign  lan- 
guage ;  the  bare  -  footed  girls  look  very 
much  in  keeping,  I  mean  with  the  scenery 
about  them.  Brown  praises  their  cleanli- 
ness and  appearance  of  comfort,  the  neat- 
ness of  their  cottages,  etc.  —  it  may  be  — 
they  are  very  squat  among  trees  and  fern 
and  heath  and  broom,  on  levels  slopes  and 
heights  —  but  I  wish  they  were  as  snug  as 
those  up  the  Devonshire  valleys.  We  are 
lodged  and  entertained  in  great  varieties. 
We  dined  yesterday  on  dirty  Bacon,  dirtier 
eggs,  and  dirtiest  potatoes,  with  a  slice  of 
salmon  —  we  breakfast  this  morning  in  a 
nice  carpeted  room,  with  sofa,  hair-bot- 
tomed Chairs,  and  green-baized  Mahogany. 
A  spring  by  the  road-side  is  always  wel- 
come :  we  drink  water  for  dinner,  diluted 
with  a  Gill  of  whisky. 

[Donaghadee]  July  6. 

Yesterday  morning  we  set  out  from 
Glenluce,  going  some  distance  round  to  see 
some  rivers  :  they  were  scarcely  worth  the 
while.  We  went  on  to  Stranraer,  in  a 


burning  sun,  and  had  gone  about  six  miles 
when  the  Mail  overtook  us  :  we  got  up, 
were  at  Port  Patrick  in  a  jiffey,  and  1  am 
writing  now  in  little  Ireland.  The  dialects 
on  the  neighbouring  shores  of  Scotland  and 
Ireland  are  much  the  same,  yet  I  can  per- 
ceive a  great  difference  in  the  nations,  from 
the  chamber-maid  at  this  nate  toone  kept  by 
Mr.  Kelly.  She  is  fair,  kind,  and  ready  to 
laugh,  because  she  is  out  of  the  horrible 
dominion  of  the  Scotch  Kirk.  A  Scotch 
girl  stands  in  terrible  awe  of  the  Elders  — 
poor  little  Susannahs,  they  will  scarcely 
laugh,  and  their  Kirk  is  greatly  to  be 
damned.  These  Kirk-men  have  done  Scot- 
land good  (Query  ?).  They  have  made 
men,  women  ;  old  men,  young  men  ;  old 
women,  young  women  ;  boys,  girls  ;  and 
all  infants  careful  —  so  that  they  are 
formed  into  regular  Phalanges  of  savers 
and  gainers.  Such  a  thrifty  army  cannot 
fail  to  enrich  their  Country,  and  give  it  a 
greater  appearance  of  Comfort,  than  that 
of  their  poor  rash  neighbourhood  —  these 
Kirk-men  have  done  Scotland  harm  ;  they 
have  banished  puns,  and  laughing,  and  kiss- 
ing, etc.  (except  in  cases  where  the  very 
danger  and  crime  must  make  it  very  gust- 
ful).  I  shall  make  a  full  stop  at  kissing, 
for  after  that  there  should  be  a  better 
parenthesis,  and  go  on  to  remind  you  of 
the  fate  of  Burns  —  poor  unfortunate  fel- 
low, his  disposition  was  Southern  —  how 
sad  it  is  when  a  luxurious  imagination  is 
obliged,  in  self-defence,  to  deaden  its  del- 
icacy in  vulgarity,  and  rot  (?)  in  things 
attainable,  that  it  may  not  have  leisure  to 
go  mad  after  things  which  are  not.  No 
man,  in  such  matters,  will  be  content  with 
the  experience  of  others  —  It  is  true  that 
out  of  suffering  there  is  no  dignity,  no 
greatness,  that  in  the  most  abstracted 
pleasure  there  is  no  lasting  happiness  — 
Yet  who  would  not  like  to  discover  over 
again  that  Cleopatra  was  a  Gipsy,  Helen  a 
rogue,  and  Ruth  a  deep  one  ?  I  have  not 
sufficient  reasoning  faculty  to  settle  the 
doctrine  of  thrift,  as  it  is  consistent  with 


TO   THOMAS    KEATS 


the  dignity  of  human  Society  —  with  the 
happiness  of  Cottagers.  All  I  can  do  is  by 
plump  contrasts  ;  were  the  fingers  made  to 
squeeze  a  guinea  oil  a  white  hand  ?  —  were 
the  lips  made  to  hold  a  pen  or  a  kiss  ?  and 
yet  in  Cities  man  is  shut  out  from  his  fel- 
lows if  he  is  poor  —  the  cottager  must  be 
very  dirty,  and  very  wretched,  if  she  be  not 
thrifty  —  the  present  state  of  society  de- 
mands this,  and  this  convinces  me  that  the 
world  is  very  young,  and  in  a  very  ignorant 
state  —  We  live  in  a  barbarous  age  —  I 
would  sooner  be  a  wild  deer,  than  a  girl 
under  the  dominion  of  the  Kirk  ;  and  I 
would  sooner  be  a  wild  hog,  than  be  the  oc- 
casion of  a  poor  Creature's  penance  before 
those  execrable  elders. 

It  is  not  so  far  to  the  Giant's  Causeway 
as  we  supposed  —  We  thought  it  70,  and 
hear  it  is  only  48  miles  —  So  we  shall  leave 
one  of  our  knapsacks  here  at  Donaghadee, 
take  our  immediate  wants,  and  be  back 
in  a  week,  when  we  shall  proceed  to  the 
County  of  Ayr.  In  the  Packet  yesterday 
we  heard  some  ballads  from  two  old  men 
—  One  was  a  Romance  which  seemed  very 
poor  — then  there  was  'The  Battle  of  the 
Boyne,'  then  '  Robin  Huid,'  as  they  call 
him  — '  Before  the  King  you  shall  go,  go, 
go;  before  the  King  you  shall  go.' 

[Stranraer,]  July  9th. 

We  stopped  very  little  in  Ireland,  and 
that  you  may  not  have  leisure  to  marvel  at 
our  speedy  return  to  Port  Patrick,  I  will 
tell  you  that  it  is  as  dear  living  in  Ireland 
as  at  the  Hummums  —  thrice  the  expense 
of  Scotland  —  it  would  have  cost  us  £  15 
before  our  return ;  moreover  we  found 
those  48  miles  to  be  Irish  ones,  which  reach 
to  70  English  —  so  having  walked  to  Bel- 
fast one  day,  and  back  to  Donaghadee  the 
next,  we  left  Ireland  with  a  fair  breeze. 
We  slept  last  night  at  Port  Patrick,  when 
I  was  gratified  by  a  letter  from  you.  On 
our  walk  in  Ireland,  we  had  too  much  op- 
portunity to  see  the  worse  than  nakedness, 
the  rags,  the  dirt  and  misery,  of  the  poor 


common  Irish  —  A  Scotch  cottage,  though 
in  that  sometimes  the  smoke  has  no  exit 
but  at  the  door,  is  a  palace  to  an  Irish  one. 
We  could  observe  that  impetuosity  in  Man 
and  Woman  —  We  had  the  pleasure  of  find- 
ing our  way  through  a  Peat-bog,  three 
miles  long  at  least  —  dreary,  flat,  dank, 
black,  and  spongy — here  and  there  were 
poor  dirty  Creatures,  and  a  few  strong  men 
cutting  or  carting  Peat  —  We  heard  on 
passing  into  Belfast  through  a  most  wretch- 
ed suburb,  that  most  disgusting  of  all 
noises,  worse  than  the  Bagpipes  —  the 
laugh  of  a  Monkey  —  the  chatter  of  women 
—  the  scream  of  a  Macaw  —  I  mean  the 
sound  of  the  Shuttle.  What  a  tremendous 
difficulty  is  the  improvement  of  such  people. 
I  cannot  conceive  how  a  mind  "  wth  child  n 
of  philanthropy  could  grasp  at  its  possi- 
bility —  with  me  it  is  absolute  despair  — 
At  a  miserable  house  of  entertainment, 
half-way  between  Donaghadeo  and  Belfast, 
were  two  men  sitting  at  Whisky  —  one  a 
labourer,  and  the  other  I  took  to  be  a 
drunken  weaver  —  the  labourer  took  me  to 
be  a  Frenchman,  and  the  other  hinted  at 
bounty-money  ;  saying  he  was  ready  to 
take  it  —  On  calling  for  the  letters  at  Port 
Patrick,  the  man  snapped  out  "  what  Regi- 
ment ? "  On  our  return  from  Belfast  we 
met  a  sedan  —  the  Duchess  of  Dunghill. 
It  is  no  laughing  matter  though.  Imagine 
the  worst  dog-kennel  you  ever  saw,  placed 
upon  two  poles  from  a  mouldy  fencing  — 
In  such  a  wretched  thing  sat  a  squalid  old 
woman,  squat  like  an  ape  half  -  starved, 
from  a  scarcity  of  biscuit  in  its  passage 
from  Madagascar  to  the  Cape,  with  a  pipe 
in  her  mouth,  and  looking  out  with  a  round- 
eyed  skinny-lidded  inanity;  with  a  sort  of 
horizontal  idiotic  movement  of  her  head  — 
Squat  and  lean  she  sat,  and  puffed  out 
the  smoke,  while  two  ragged  tattered  girls 
carried  her  along.  What  a  thing  would  be 
a  history  of  her  life  and  sensations  ;  I  shall 
endeavour  when  I  have  thought  a  little 
more,  to  give  you  my  idea  of  the  difference 
between  the  Scotch  and  Irish  —  The  two 


3I2 


LJETTERS   OF  JOHN   KEATS 


Irishmen  I  mentioned  were  speaking  of 
their  treatment  in  England,  when  the 
weaver  said  —  "  Ah  you  were  a  civil  man, 
but  I  was  a  drinker." 

Till   further  notice  you  must  direct   to 
Inverness. 

Your  most  affectionate  Brother 

JOHN. 

60.    TO  THE  SAME 

« 

Belantree  [for  Ballantrae,]  July  10. 
MY  DEAR  TOM  —  The  reason  for  my 
writing  these  lines  ['  Ah  !  ken  ye  what  I 
met  the  day,'  p.  145]  was  that  Brown 
wanted  to  impose  a  Galloway  song  upon 
Dilke  —  but  it  won't  do.  The  subject  I  got 
from  meeting  a  wedding  just  as  we  came 
down  into  this  place  —  where  I  am  afraid 
we  shall  be  imprisoned  a  while  by  the 
weather.  Yesterday  we  came  27  Miles 
from  Stranraer  —  entered  Ayrshire  a  little 
beyond  Cairn,  and  had  our  path  through  a 
delightful  Country.  I  shall  endeavour  that 
you  may  follow  our  steps  in  this  walk  —  it 
would  be  uninteresting  in  a  Book  of  Travels 

—  it  can  not  be  interesting  but  by  my  hav- 
ing gone  through  it.     When  we  left  Cairn 
our  Road  lay  half  way  up  the  sides  of  a 
green  mountainous  shore,  full  of  clefts  of 
verdure  and  eternally  varying  —  sometimes 
up  sometimes  down,  and  over  little  Bridges 
going  across  green  chasms  of   moss,  rock 
and    trees  —  winding    about    everywhere. 
After  two  or  three  Miles  of  this  we  turned 
suddenly   into    a    magnificent   glen  finely 
wooded  in  Parts  —  seven  Miles  long  —  with 
a  Mountain  stream  winding  down  the  Midst 

—  full  of  cottages  in  the  most  happy  situa- 
tions —  the  sides  of  the  Hills  covered  with 
sheep  —  the  effect  of  cattle  lowing  I  never 
had  so  finely.   At  the  end  we  had  a  gradual 
ascent  and  got  among  the  tops  of  the  Moun- 
tains whence  in  a  little  time  I  descried  in 
the  Sea  Ailsa  Rock  940  feet  high  — it  was 
15  Miles  distant  and  seemed  close  upon  us. 
The  effect  of  Ailsa  with  the  peculiar  per- 
spective of  the  Sea  in  connection  with  the 
ground  we  stood  on,  and   the  misty  rain 


then  falling  gave  me  a  complete  Idea  of  a 
deluge.  Ailsa  struck  me  very  suddenly  — 
really  I  was  a  little  alarmed. 

[Girvan,  same  day,  July  10.] 
Thus  far  had  I  written  before  we  set  out 
this  morning.  Now  we  are  at  Girvan  13 
Miles  north  of  Belantree.  Our  Walk  has 
been  along  a  more  grand  shore  to-day  than 
yesterday  —  Ailsa  beside  us  all  the  way.  — 
From  the  heights  we  could  see  quite  at 
home  Cantire  and  the  large  Mountains  of 
Arran,  one  of  the  Hebrides.  We  are  in 
comfortable  Quarters.  The  Rain  we  feared 
held  up  bravely  and  it  has  been  *  f u  fine 
this  day.'  —  To-morrow  we  shall  be  at  Ayr. 

[Kirkoswald,  July  11.] 
'T  is  now  the  llth  of  July  and  we  have 
come  8  Miles  to  Breakfast  to  Kirkoswald. 
I  hope  the  next  Kirk  will  be  Kirk  Alloway. 
I  have  nothing  of  consequence  to  say  now 
concerning  our  journey  —  so  I  will  speak  as 
far  as  I  can  judge  on  the  Irish  and  Scotch 
—  I  know  nothing  of  the  higher  Classes  — 
yet  I  have  a  persuasion  that  there  the  Irish 
are  victorious.  As  to  the  profanum  vulgus 
I  must  incline  to  the  Scotch.  They  never 
laugh — but  they  are  always  comparatively 
neat  and  clean.  Their  constitutions  are  not 
so  remote  and  puzzling  as  the  Irish.  The 
Scotchman  will  never  give  a  decision  on 
any  point  —  he  will  never  commit  himself 
in  a  sentence  which  may  be  referred  to  as 
a  meridian  in  his  notion  of  things  —  so  that 
you  do  not  know  him  —  and  yet  you  may 
come  in  nigher  neighbourhood  to  him  than 
to  the  Irishman  who  commits  himself  in  so 
many  places  that  it  dazes  your  head.  A 
Scotchman's  motive  is  more  easily  dis- 
covered than  an  Irishman's.  A  Scotchman 
will  go  wisely  about  to  deceive  you,  an  Irish- 
man cunningly.  An  Irishman  would  bluster 
out  of  any  discovery  to  his  disadvantage.  A 
Scotchman  would  retire  perhaps  without 
much  desire  for  revenge.  An  Irishman 
likes  to  be  thought  a  gallous  fellow.  A 
Scotchman  is  contented  with  himself.  It 


TO   THOMAS   KEATS 


seems  to  me  they  are  both  sensible  of  the 
Character  they  hold  in  England  and  act 
accordingly  to  Englishmen.  Thus  the 
Scotchman  will  become  over  grave  and 
over  decent  and  the  Irishman  over-impetu- 
ous. I  like  a  Scotchman  best  because  he 
is  less  of  a  bore  —  I  like  the  Irishman  best 
because  he  ought  to  be  more  comfortable. 

—  The  Scotchman  has  made  up  his  Mind 
within  himself  in  a  sort  of  snail  shell  wis- 
dom.   The  Irishman  is  full  of  strongheaded 
instinct.     The  Scotchman  is  farther  in  Hu- 
manity than  the  Irishman  —  there  he  will 
stick  perhaps  when  the  Irishman  will  be 
refined  beyond  him  —  for  the  former  thinks 
he  cannot  be  improved  —  the  latter  would 
grasp  at  it  for  ever,  place  but  the  good 
plain  before  him. 

Maybole  [same  day,  July  11]. 

Since  breakfast  we  have  come  only  four 

Miles  to  dinner,  not  merely,  for  we  have 

examined  in  the  way  two   Ruins,  one  of 

them  very  fine,  called  Crossraguel  Abbey 

—  there  is  a  winding  Staircase  to  the  top 
of  a  little  Watch  Tower. 

Kingswells,  July  13. 

I  have  been  writing  to  Reynolds  —  there- 
fore any  particulars  since  Kirkoswald 
have  escaped  me  —  from  said  Kirk  we  went 
to  Maybole  to  dinner  —  then  we  set  for- 
ward to  Burness'  town  Ayr  —  the  approach 
to  it  is  extremely  fine  —  quite  outwent  my 
expectations  —  richly  meadowed,  wooded, 
heathed  and  rivuleted  —  with  a  grand  Sea 
view  terminated  by  the  black  Mountains  of 
the  isle  of  Arran.  As  soon  as  I  saw  them 
so  nearly  I  said  to  myself  '  How  is  it  they 
did  not  beckon  Burns  to  some  grand  at- 
tempt at  Epic  ? ' 

The  bonny  Doon  is  the  sweetest  river  I 
ever  saw  —  overhung  with  fine  trees  as  far 
as  we  could  see  —  We  stood  some  time 
on  the  Brig  across  it,  over  which  Tarn  o' 
Shanter  fled  —  we  took  a  pinch  of  snuff 
on  the  Key  stone  —  then  we  proceeded  to 
the  'auld  Kirk  Alloway.'  As  we  were 


looking  at  it  a  Farmer  pointed  the  spots 
where  Mungo's  Mither  hang'd  hersel' 
and  '  drunken  Charlie  brake  's  neck's  bane.' 
Then  we  proceeded  to  the  Cottage  he  was 
born  in  —  there  was  a  board  to  that  effect 
by  the  door  side  —  it  had  the  same  effect 
as  the  same  sort  of  memorial  at  Stratford 
on  Avon.  We  drank  some  Toddy  to  Burns's 
Memory  with  an  old  Man  who  knew  Burns 

—  damn  him  and  damn  his  anecdotes  —  he 
was  a  great  bore  —  it  was  impossible  for  a 
Southron  to  understand  above  5  words  in  a 
hundred.  —  There  was  something  good  in 
his  description  of  Burns's  melancholy  the 
last  time  he  saw  him.     I  was  determined 
to  write  a  sonnet  in  the  Cottage  —  I  did  — 
but  it  was  so  bad  I  cannot  venture  it  here. 

Next  we  walked  into  Ayr  Town  and  be- 
fore we  went  to  Tea  saw  the  new  Brig  and 
the  Auld  Brig  and  Wallace  tower.  Yester- 
day we  dined  with  a  Traveller.  We  were 
talking  about  Kean.  He  said  he  had  seen 
him  at  Glasgow  ( in  Othello  in  the  Jew,  I 
mean  er,  er,  er,  the  Jew  in  Shylock.'  He 
got  bother'd  completely  in  vague  ideas  of 
the  Jew  in  Othello,  Shylock  in  the  Jew, 
Shylock  in  Othello,  Othello  in  Shylock,  the 
Jew  in  Othello,  etc.  etc.  etc.  —  he  left  him- 
self in  a  mess  at  last.  —  Still  satisfied  with 
himself  he  went  to  the  Window  and  gave 
an  abortive  whistle  of  some  tune  or  other 

—  it  might  have  been  Handel.    There  is  no 
end  to  these  Mistakes  —  he  '11  go  and  tell 
people  how  he  has  seen  'Malvolio  in  the 
Countess '  —  '  Twelfth  night  in   Midsum- 
mer night's    dream  '  —  Bottom   in   much 
ado  about  Nothing  —  Viola  in  Barrymore 

—  Antony  in  Cleopatra  —  Falstaff  in  the 
mouse  Trap.  — 

[Glasgow,]  July  14. 

We  enter'd  Glasgow  last  Evening  under 
the  most  oppressive  Stare  a  body  could  feel. 
When  we  had  crossed  the  Bridge  Brown 
look'd  back  and  said  its  whole  population 
had  turned  out  to  wonder  at  us  —  we  came 
on  till  a  drunken  Man  came  up  to  me  —  I 
put  him  off  with  my  Arm  —  he  returned  all 
up  in  Arms  saying  aloud  that,  'he  had 


LETTERS   OF  JOHN   KEATS 


seen  all  foreigners  bu-u-ut  he  never  saw 
the  like  o'  me.'  I  was  obliged  to  mention 
the  word  Officer  and  Police  before  he 
would  desist.  —  The  City  of  Glasgow  I  take 
to  be  a  very  fine  one  —  I  was  astonished  to 
hear  it  was  twice  the  size  of  Edinburgh.  It 
is  built  of  Stone  and  has  a  much  more  solid 
appearance  than  London.  We  shall  see 
the  Cathedral  this  morning  —  they  have 
devilled  it  into  *  High  Kirk.'  I  want  very 
much  to  know  the  name  of  the  ship  George 
is  gone  in  —  also  what  port  he  will  land  in 

—  I  know  nothing  about  it.     I  hope  you 
are  leading  a  quiet  Life  and  gradually  im- 
proving.   Make  a  long  lounge  of  the  whole 
Summer  —  by  the  time  the  Leaves  fall  I 
shall  be  near  you  with  plenty  of  confab  — 
there  are  a  thousand  things  I  cannot  write. 
Take  care  of  yourself  —  I  mean  in  not  be- 
ing vexed  or  bothered  at  anything. 

God  bless  you  !  JOHN . 

61.      TO  JOHN   HAMILTON   REYNOLDS 

Maybole,  July  11  [1818]. 
MY  DEAR  REYNOLDS  —  I  '11  not  run  over 
the  Ground  we  have  passed;  that  would  be 
merely  as  bad  as  telling  a  dream  —  unless 
perhaps  I  do  it  in  the  manner  of  the  Lapu- 
tan  printing  press  —  that  is  I  put  down 
Mountains,  Rivers  Lakes,  dells,  glens, 
Rocks,  and  Clouds,  with  beautiful  enchant- 
ing, Gothic  picturesque  fine,  delightful,  en- 
chanting, Grand,  sublime  —  a  few  blisters, 
etc.  —  and  now  you  have  our  journey  thus 
far  :  where  I  begin  a  letter  to  you  because 
I  am  approaching  Burns's  Cottage  very 
fast.  We  have  made  continual  inquiries 
from  the  time  we  saw  his  Tomb  at  Dum- 
fries—  his  name  of  course  is  known  all 
about  —  his  great  reputation  among  the 
plodding  people  is,  c  that  he  wrote  a  good 
many  sensible  things.'  One  of  the  plea- 
santest  means  of  annulling  self  is  approach- 
ing such  a  shrine  as  the  Cottage  of  Burns 

—  we  need  not  think  of  his  misery  —  that 
is  all  gone,  bad  luck  to  it  —  I  shall  look 
upon  it  hereafter  with  unmixed  pleasure, 


as  I  do  upon  my  Stratford-on-Avon  day 
with  Bailey.  I  shall  fill  this  sheet  for  you 
in  the  Bardie's  country,  going  no  further 
than  this  till  I  get  into  the  town  of  Ayr 
which  will  be  a  9  miles'  walk  to  Tea. 

[Kingswells,  July  13.] 

We  were  talking  on  different  and  indif- 
ferent things,  when  on  a  sudden  we  turned 
a  corner  upon  the  immediate  Country  of 
Ayr  —  the  Sight  was  as  rich  as  possible.  I 
had  no  Conception  that  the  native  place  of 
Burns  was  so  beautiful  —  the  idea  I  had 
was  more  desolate,  his  '  rigs  of  Barley ' 
seemed  always  to  me  but  a  few  strips  of 
Green  on  a  cold  hill  —  O  prejudice!  it  was 
as  rich  as  Devon  —  I  endeavoured  to  drink 
in  the  Prospect,  that  I  might  spin  it  out  to 
you  as  the  Silkworm  makes  silk  from 
Mulberry  leaves  —  I  cannot  recollect  it  — 
Besides  all  the  Beauty,  there  were  the 
Mountains  of  Arran  Isle,  black  and  huge 
over  the  Sea.  We  came  down  upon  every- 
thing suddenly  —  there  were  in  our  way 
the  « bonny  Doon,'  with  the  Brig  that  Tarn 
o'  Shanter  crossed,  Kirk  Alloway,  Burns's 
Cottage,  and  then  the  Brigs  of  Ayr.  First 
we  stood  upon  the  Bridge  across  the  Doon; 
surrounded  by  every  Phantasy  of  green  in 
Tree,  Meadow,  and  Hill,  —  the  stream  of 
the  Doon,  as  a  Farmer  told  us,  is  covered 
with  trees  from  head  to  foot  —  you  know 
those  beautiful  heaths  so  fresh  against  the 
weather  of  a  summer's  evening  —  there 
was  one  stretching  along  behind  the  trees. 
I  wish  I  knew  always  the  humour  my 
friends  would  be  in  at  opening  a  letter  of 
mine,  to  suit  it  to  them  as  nearly  as  possi- 
ble. I  could  always  find  an  egg  shell  for 
Melancholy,  and  as  for  Merriment  a  Witty 
humour  will  turn  anything  to  Account  — 
My  head  is  sometimes  in  such  a  whirl  in 
considering  the  million  likings  and  anti- 
pathies of  our  Moments  —  that  I  can  get 
into  no  settled  strain  in  my  Letters.  My 
Wig  !  Burns  and  sentimentality  coming 
across  you  and  Frank  Fladgate  in  the  of- 
fice —  O  scenery  that  thou  shouldst  be 


TO   JOHN   HAMILTON    REYNOLDS 


crushed  between  two  Puns  —  As  for  them 
I  venture  the  rascalliest  in  the  Scotch  Re- 
gion —  I  hope  Brown  does  not  put  them 
punctually  in  his  journal  —  If  he  does  I 
must  sit  on  the  cutty-stool  all  next  winter. 
We  went  to  Kirk  Alloway  —  '  a  Prophet 
is  no  Prophet  in  his  own  Country' — We 
went  to  the  Cottage  and  took  some  Whisky. 
I  wrote  a  sonnet  for  the  mere  sake  of 
writing  some  lines  under  the  roof  —  they 
are  so  bad  I  cannot  transcribe  them  —  The 
Man  at  the  Cottage  was  a  great  Bore  with 
his  Anecdotes  —  I  hate  the  rascal  —  his 
Life  consists  in  f uz,  fuzzy,  fuzziest  —  He 
drinks  glasses  five  for  the  Quarter  and 
twelve  for  the  hour  —  he  is  a  mahogany- 
faced  old  Jackass  who  knew  Burns  —  He 
ought  to  have  been  kicked  for  having 
spoken  to  him.  He  calls  himself  "  a  curi- 
ous old  Bitch  "  — but  he  is  a  flat  old  dog  — 
I  should  like  to  employ  Caliph  Vathek  to 
kick  him.  O  the  flummery  of  a  birthplace! 
Cant!  Cant!  Cant!  It  is  enough  to  give  a 
spirit  the  guts-ache  —  Many  a  true  word, 
they  say,  is  spoken  in  jest  —  this  may  be 
because  his  gab  hindered  my  sublimity:  the 
flat  dog  made  me  write  a  flat  sonnet.  My 
dear  Reynolds  —  I  cannot  write  about 
scenery  and  visitings  —  Fancy  is  indeed 
less  than  a  present  palpable  reality,  but  it 
is  greater  than  remembrance  —  you  would 
lift  your  eyes  from  Homer  only  to  see  close 
before  you  the  real  Isle  of  Tenedos  —  you 
would  rather  read  Homer  afterwards  than 
remember  yourself  —  One  song  of  Burns's 
is  of  more  worth  to  you  than  all  I  could 
think  for  a  whole  year  in  his  native  country. 
His  Misery  is  a  dead  weight  upon  the  nim- 
bleness  of  one's  quill  —  I  tried  to  forget  it 
—  to  drink  Toddy  without  any  Care  —  to 
write  a  merry  sonnet  —  it  won't  do  —  he 
talked  with  Bitches  —  he  drank  with  Black- 
guards, he  was  miserable  —  We  can  see 
horribly  clear,  in  the  works  of  such  a  Man 
his  whole  life,  as  if  we  were  God's  spies.  — 
What  were  his  addresses  to  Jean  in  the 
latter  part  of  his  life  ?  I  should  not 
epeak  so  to  you  —  yet  why  not  —  you  are 


not  in  the  same  case,  you  are  in  the  right 
path,  and  you  shall  not  be  deceived.  I 
have  spoken  to  you  against  Marriage,  but 
it  was  general  —  the  Prospect  in  those 
matters  has  been  to  me  so  blank,  that  I 
have  not  been  unwilling  to  die  —  I  would 
not  now,  for  I  have  inducements  to  Life  — 
I  must  see  my  little  Nephews  in  America, 
and  I  must  see  you  marry  your  lovely  Wife. 
My  sensations  are  sometimes  deadened  for 
weeks  together  —  but  believe  me  I  have 
more  than  once  yearned  for  the  time  of 
your  happiness  to  come,  as  much  as  I  could 
for  myself  after  the  lips  of  Juliet.  —  From 
the  tenor  of  my  occasional  rodomontade  in 
chit-chat,  you  might  have  been  deceived 
concerning  me  in  these  points  —  upon  my 
soul,  I  have  been  getting  more  and  more 
close  to  you,  every  day,  ever  since  I  knew 
you,  and  now  one  of  the  first  pleasures  I 
look  to  is  your  happy  Marriage  —  the  more, 
since  I  have  felt  the  pleasure  of  loving  a 
sister  in  Law.  I  did  not  think  it  possible 
to  become  so  much  attached  in  so  short  a 
time  —  Things  like  these,  and  they  are 
real,  have  made  me  resolve  to  have  a  care 
of  my  health  —  you  must  be  as  careful. 

The  rain  has  stopped  us  to-day  at  the 
end  of  a  dozen  Miles,  yet  we  hope  to  see 
Loch  Lomond  the  day  after  to-morrow;  — 
I  will  piddle  out  my  information,  as  Rice 
says,  next  Winter,  at  any  time  when  a  sub- 
stitute is  wanted  for  Vingt-un.  We  bear 
the  fatigue  very  well  —  20  Miles  a  day  in 
general  —  A  Cloud  came  over  us  in  getting 
up  Skiddaw  —  I  hope  to  be  more  lucky  in 
Ben  Lomond  —  and  more  lucky  still  in  Ben 
Nevis.  What  I  think  you  would  enjoy  is 
poking  about  Ruins  —  sometimes  Abbey, 
sometimes  Castle.  The  short  stay  we  made 
in  Ireland  has  left  few  remembrances  — 
but  an  old  woman  in  a  dog-kennel  Sedan 
with  a  pipe  in  her  Mouth,  is  what  I  can 
never  forget  —  I  wish  I  may  be  able  to 
give  you  an  idea  of  her  —  Remember  me 
to  your  Mother  and  Sisters,  and  tell  your 
Mother  how  I  hope  she  will  pardon  me  for 
having  a  scrap  of  paper89  pasted  in  the 


LETTERS   OF   JOHN   KEATS 


Book  sent  to  her.  I  was  driven  on  all  sides 
and  had  not  time  to  call  on  Taylor  —  So 
Bailey  is  coming  to  Cumberland  —  well,  if 
you  Jll  let  me  know  where  at  Inverness,  I 
will  call  on  my  return  and  pass  a  little 
time  with  him  —  I  am  glad  't  is  not  Scot- 
land —  Tell  my  friends  I  do  all  I  can  for 
them,  that  is,  drink  their  healths  in  Toddy. 
Perhaps  I  may  have  some  lines  by  and  by 
to  send  you  fresh,  on  your  own  Letter  — 
Tom  has  a  few  to  show  you. 

Your  affectionate  friend 

JOHN  KEATS. 

62.    TO  THOMAS  KEATS 

Cairn-something  [Cairndow],  July  17,  [1818]. 

MY  DEAR  TOM  —  Here 's  Brown  going  on 
so  that  I  cannot  bring  to  mind  how  the  two 
last  days  have  vanished  —  for  example  he 


says  The  Lady  of  the  Lake  went  to  Rock 
herself  to  sleep  on  Arthur's  seat  and  the 
Lord  of  the  Isles  coming  to  Press  a  Piece. 
...  I  told  you  last  how  we  were  stared  at 
in  Glasgow  —  we  are  not  out  of  the  Crowd 
yet.  Steam  Boats  on  Loch  Lomond  and 
Barouches  on  its  sides  take  a  little  from 
the  Pleasure  of  such  romantic  chaps  as 
Brown  and  I.  The  Banks  of  the  Clyde  are 
extremely  beautiful  —  the  north  end  of 
Loch  Lomond  grand  in  excess  —  the  en- 
trance at  the  lower  end  to  the  narrow  part 
from  a  little  distance  is  precious  good  — 
the  Evening  was  beautiful  nothing  could 
surpass  our  fortune  in  the  weather  —  yet 
was  I  worldly  enough  to  wish  for  a  fleet  of 
chivalry  Barges  with  Trumpets  and  Ban- 
ners just  to  die  away  before  me  into  that 
blue  place  among  the  mountains  —  I  must 
give  you  an  outline  as  well  as  I  can. 


/~^fc  jfc 


No*  B  —  the  Water  was  a  fine  Blue  sil- 
vered and  the  Mountains  a  dark  purple,  the 
Sun  setting  aslant  behind  them  —  mean- 
time the  head  of  ben  Lomond  was  covered 
with  a  rich  Pink  Cloud.  We  did  not  as- 
cend Ben  Lomond  —  the  price  being  very 
high  and  a  half  a  day  of  rest  being  quite 
acceptable.  We  were  up  at  4  this  morning 
and  have  walked  to  breakfast  15  Miles 
through  two  Tremendous  Glens  —  at  the 
end  of  the  first  there  is  a  place  called  rest 
and  be  thankful  which  we  took  for  an  Inn 
—  it  was  nothing  but  a  Stone  and  so  we 
were  cheated  into  5  more  Miles  to  Break- 
fast— I  have  just  been  bathing  in  Loch 
Fyne  a  salt  water  Lake  opposite  the  Win- 
dows,—  quite  pat  and  fresh  but  for  the 


cursed  Gad  flies  —  damn  'em  they  have 
been  at  me  ever  since  I  left  the  Swan  and 
two  necks.40 

[Keats  here  objurgates  The  Gadfly  in  the 
lines  printed  on  p.  245.] 

[Inverary,  July  18.] 

Last  Evening  we  came  around  the  End 
of  Loch  Fyne  to  Inverary  —  the  Duke  of 
Argyle's  Castle  is  very  modern  magnificent 
and  more  so  from  the  place  it  is  in  —  the 
woods  seem  old  enough  to  remember  two 
or  three  changes  in  the  Crags  about  them 

—  the  Lake  was  beautiful  and  there  was  a 
Band  at  a  distance  by  the  Castle.     I  must 
say  I  enjoyed  two  or  three  common  tunes 

—  but  nothing  could  stifle  the  horrors  of  a 


TO   THOMAS    KEATS 


31? 


solo  on  the  Bag-pipe  —  I  thought  the  Beast 
would  never  have  done.  —  Yet  was  I 
doomed  to  hear  another.  —  On  entering  In- 
verary  we  saw  a  Play  Bill.  Brown  was 
knocked  up  from  new  shoes  —  so  I  went 
to  the  Barn  alone  where  I  saw  the  Stranger 
accompanied  by  a  Bag-pipe.  There  they 
went  on  about  interesting  creators  and 
human  nater  till  the  Curtain  fell  and  then 
came  the  Bag-pipe.  When  Mrs.  Haller 
fainted  down  went  the  Curtain  and  out 
came  the  Bag-pipe  —  at  the  heartrending, 
shoemending  reconciliation  the  Piper  blew 
amain.  I  never  read  or  saw  this  play  be- 
fore ;  not  the  Bag-pipe  nor  the  wretched 
players  themselves  were  little  in  comparison 
with  it  —  thank  heaven  it  has  been  scoffed 
at  lately  almost  to  a  fashion  — 

[The  sonnet  printed  above,  p.  246,  is  here 
copied.] 

I  think  we  are  the  luckiest  fellows  in 
Christendom  —  Brown  could  not  proceed 
this  morning  on  account  of  his  feet  and  lo 
there  is  thunder  and  rain. 

[Kilmelford,]  July  20th. 
For  these  two  days  past  we  have  been 
so  badly  accommodated  more  particularly 
in  coarse  food  that  I  have  not  been  at  all 
in  cue  to  write.  Last  night  poor  Brown 
with  his  feet  blistered  and  scarcely  able 
to  walk,  after  a  trudge  of  20  Miles  down 
the  Side  of  Loch  Awe  had  no  supper  but 
Eggs  and  Oat  Cake  —  we  have  lost  the 
sight  of  white  bread  entirely  —  Now  we 
have  eaten  nothing  but  Eggs  all  day  — 
about  10  a  piece  and  they  had  become  sick- 
ening —  To-day  we  have  fared  rather  bet- 
ter —  but  no  oat  Cake  wanting  —  we  had  a 
small  Chicken  and  even  a  good  bottle  of 
Port  but  all  together  the  fare  is  too  coarse 
—  I  feel  it  a  little. — Another  week  will 
break  us  in.  I  forgot  to  tell  you  that  when 
we  came  through  Glenside  it  was  early  in 
the  morning  and  we  were  pleased  with  the 
noise  of  Shepherds,  Sheep  and  dogs  in  the 
misty  heights  close  above  us  —  we  saw  none 
of  them  for  some  time,  till  two  came  in 


sight  creeping  among  the  Crags  like  Em- 
mets, yet  their  voices  came  quite  plainly  to 
us  —  The  approach  to  Loch  Awe  was  very 
solemn  towards  nightfall  —  the  first  glance 
was  a  streak  of  water  deep  in  the  Bases  of 
large  black  Mountains.  —  We  had  come 
along  a  complete  mountain  road,  where  if 
one  listened  there  was  not  a  sound  but  that 
of  Mountain  Streams.  We  walked  20 
Miles  by  the  side  of  Loch  Awe  —  every  ten 
steps  creating  a  new  and  beautiful  picture 

—  sometimes  through  little  wood  —  there 
are   two  islands  on  the  Lake  each  with  a 
beautiful  ruin  —  one  of  them  rich  in  ivy.  — 
We  are  detained  this  morning  by  the  rain. 
I  will  tell  you  exactly  where  we  are.     We 
are  between  Loch  Craignish  and  the  sea  just 
opposite  Long  [Luing]  Island.     Yesterday 
our  walk  was  of  this  description  —  the  near 
Hills  were  not  very  lofty  but  many  of  them 
steep,    beautifully    wooded  —  the    distant 
Mountains  in  the  Hebrides  very  grand,  the 
Saltwater  Lakes  coming  up  between  Crags 
and  Islands  full  tide  and  scarcely  ruffled 

—  sometimes  appearing  as  one  large  Lake, 
sometimes  as  three  distinct  ones  in  differ- 
ent directions.     At  one  point  we  saw  afar 
off  a  rocky  opening  into  the  main  sea.  — 
We  have  also  seen  an  Eagle  or  two.     They 
move  about   without   the    least  motion  of 
Wings  when  in  an  indolent  fit.  —  I  am  for 
the  first  time  in  a  country  where  a  foreign 
Language   is    spoken  —  they  gabble  away 
Gaelic  at  a  vast  rate  —  numbers  of  them 
speak  English.     There  are  not  many  Kilts 
in  Argyleshire  —  at  Fort  William  they  say 
a  Man  is  not  admitted  into  Society  without 
one  —  the  Ladies  there   have  a  horror  at 
the  indecency  of  Breeches.     I  cannot  give 
you  a  better  idea  of  Highland  Life  than  by 
describing  the  place  we  are  in.     The  Inn  or 
public  is  by  far  the  best  house  in  the  im- 
mediate   neighbourhood.      It  has  a  white 
front   with  tolerable  windows  —  the  table 
I  am  writing  on  surprises  me  as  being  a 
nice  flapped  Mahogany  one.  .  .  .  You  may 
if  you   peep  see  through  the  floor  chinks 
into  the  ground  rooms.     The  old  Grand* 


LETTERS   OF  JOHN   KEATS 


mother  of  the  house  seems  intelligent 
though  not  over  clean.  N.  B.  No  snuff 
being  to  be  had  in  the  village  she  made  us 
some.  The  Guid  Man  is  a  rough-looking 
hardy  stout  Man  who  I  think  does  not 
speak  so  much  English  as  the  Guid  wife 
who  is  very  obliging  and  sensible  and  more- 
over though  stockingless  has  a  pair  of  old 
Shoes  —  Last  night  some  Whisky  Men  sat 
up  clattering  Gaelic  till  I  am  sure  one 
o'Clock  to  our  great  annoyance.  There  is 
a  Gaelic  testament  on  the  Drawers  in  the 
next  room.  White  and  blue  China  ware 
has  crept  all  about  here  —  Yesterday  there 
passed  a  Donkey  laden  with  tin-pots  — 
opposite  the  Window  there  are  hills  in  a 
Mist  —  a  few  Ash  trees  and  a  mountain 
stream  at  a  little  distance.  —  They  possess 
a  few  head  of  Cattle.  —  If  you  had  gone 
round  to  the  back  of  the  House  just  now 
—  you  would  have  seen  more  hills  in  a 
Mist  —  some  dozen  wretched  black  Cot- 
tages scented  of  peat  smoke  which  finds  its 
way  by  the  door  or  a  hole  in  the  roof  —  a 
girl  here  and  there  barefoot.  There  was 
one  little  thing  driving  Cows  down  a  slope 
like  a  mad  thing.  There  was  another 
standing  at  the  cowhouse  door  rather  pretty 
fac'd  all  up  to  the  ankles  in  dirt. 

[Oban,  July  21.] 

We  have  walk'd  15  Miles  in  a  soaking 
rain  to  Oban  opposite  the  Isle  of  Mull 
which  is  so  near  Staffa  we  had  thought  to 
pass  to  it  —  but  the  expense  is  7  Guineas 
and  those  rather  extorted.  —  Staffa  you 
see  is  a  fashionable  place  and  there- 
fore every  one  concerned  with  it  either  in 
this  town  or  the  Island  are  what  you  call 
up.  'T  is  like  paying  sixpence  for  an  apple 
at  the  playhouse  —  this  irritated  me  and 
Brown  was  not  best  pleased  —  we  have 
therefore  resolved  to  set  northward  for 
fort  William  to-morrow  morning.  I  fed 
upon  a  bit  of  white  Bread  to-day  like  a 
Sparrow  —  it  was  very  fine  —  I  cannot 
manage  the  cursed  Oat  Cake.  Remember 
pae  to  all  and  let  me  hear  a  good  account  of 


you  at  Inverness  —  I  am  sorry  Georgy  had 
not  those  lines.     Good-bye. 

Your  affectionate  Brother  JOHN . 


63.    TO   BENJAMIN   BAILEY 

Inverary,  July  18  [1818]. 
MY  DEAR  BAILEY  —  The  only  day  I 
have  had  a  chance  of  seeing  you  when  you 
were  last  in  London  I  took  every  advan- 
tage of  —  some  devil  led  you  out  of  the 
way  —  Now  I  have  written  to  Reynolds  to 
tell  me  where  you  will  be  in  Cumberland 

—  so  that  I  cannot  miss  you.     And  when  I 
see  you,  the  first  thing  I  shall  do  will  be 
to  read  that  about  Milton  and  Ceres,  and 
Proserpine  —  for  though  I  am  not  going 
after  you  to  John  o'  Grot's,  it  will  be  but 
poetical  to   say   so.     And  here,  Bailey,  I 
will  say  a  few  words  written  in  a  sane  and 
seber  mind,  a  very  scarce  thing  with  me, 
for  they  may,  hereafter,  save  you  a  great 
deal  of  trouble  about  me,  which  you  do  not 
deserve,  and  for  which  I  ought  to  be  bas- 
tinadoed.   I  carry  all  matters  to  an  extreme 

—  so  that  when  I  have  any  little  vexation, 
it  grows  in  five  minutes  into  a  theme  for 
Sophocles.     Then,  and  in  that  temper,  if  I 
write  to  any  friend,  I  have  so  little  self- 
possession  that  I  give  him  matter  for  griev- 
ing at  the  very  time   perhaps  when  I  am 
laughing  at  a  Pun.     Your  last  letter  made 
me  blush  for  the  pain  I  had  given  you  — 
I  know  my  own  disposition  so  well  that  I 
am  certain  of  writing  many  times  hereafter 
in  the  same  strain  to  you  —  now,  you  know 
how  far  to  believe  in  them.     You  must  al- 
low for  Imagination.     I  know  I  shall  not 
be  able  to  help  it. 

I  am  sorry  you  are  grieved  at  my  not 
continuing  my  visits  to  Little  Britain  — 
Yet  I  think  I  have  as  far  as  a  Man  can  do 
who  has  Books  to  read  and  subjects  to 
think  upon  —  for  that  reason  I  have  been 
nowhere  else  except  to  Wentworth  Place 
so  nigh  at  hand  —  moreover  I  have  been 
too  often  in  a  state  of  health  that  made  it 
prudent  not  to  hazard  the  night  air.  Yet, 


TO   BENJAMIN    BAILEY 


further,  I  will  confess  to  you  that  I  cannot 
enjoy  Society  small  or  numerous — 1  ana 
certain  that  our  fair  friends  are  glad  I 
should  come  for  the  mere  sake  of  my  com- 
ing ;  but  I  am  certain  I  bring  with  me  a 
vexation  they  are  better  without  —  If  I  can 
possibly  at  any  time  feel  my  temper  coming 
upon  me  I  refrain  even  from  a  promised 
visit.  I  am  certain  I  have  not  a  right  feel- 
ing towards  women  —  at  this  moment,  I 
am  striving  to  be  just  to  them,  but  I  cannot 

—  Is  it  because  they  fall  so  far  beneath 
my  boyish  Imagination  ?     When  I  was  a 
schoolboy  I  thought  a  fair  woman  a  pure 
Goddess  ;  my  mind  was  a  soft  nest  in  which 
some  one  of  them  slept,  though  she  knew 
it  not.     I  have  no   right  to    expect  more 
than  their  reality  —  I  thought  them  ethe- 
real above  men  —  I  find  them  perhaps  equal 

—  great  by  comparison  is  very  small.     In- 
sult may  be  inflicted  in  more  ways  than  by 
word   or  action  —  One   who   is   tender  of 
being  insulted   does  not  like  to  think  an 
insult  against  another.     I  do   not  like  to 
think  insults  in  a  lady's  company  —  I  com- 
mit a  crime  with  her  which  absence  would 
not    have    known.      Is    it    not   extraordi- 
nary ?  —  when  among  men,  I  have  no  evil 
thoughts,  no  malice,  no  spleen  —  I  feel  free 
to  speak  or  to  be  silent  —  I  can  listen,  and 
from   every  one  I  can  learn  —  my  hands 
are   in  my   pockets,  I  am   free   from   all 
suspicion   and   comfortable.     When  I   am 
among  women,  I  have  evil  thoughts,  malice, 
spleen  —  I  cannot   speak,   or  be  silent  — 
I  am  full  of  suspicions  and  therefore  listen 
to  nothing  —  I  am  in  a  hurry  to  be  gone. 
You  must  be  charitable   and  put  all  this 
perversity  to  my  being  disappointed  since 
my  boyhood.     Yet  with  such  feelings  I  am 
happier  alone  among   crowds  of  men,  by 
myself,  or  with  a  friend  or  two.     With  all 
this,  trust  me,  I  have  not  the  least  idea 
that  men  of  different  feelings  and  inclina- 
tions are  more  short-sighted  than  myself. 
I  never  rejoiced  more  than  at  my  Brother's 
marriage,  and  shall  do  so  at  that  of  any 
of  my  friends.     I  must  absolutely  get  over 


this  —  but  how  ?  the  only  way  is  to  find 
the  root  of  the  evil,  and  so  cure  it  *  with 
backward  mutters  of  dissevering  power '  — 
that  is  a  difficult  thing  ;  for  an  obstinate 
Prejudice  can  seldom  be  produced  but  from 
a  gordian  complication  of  feelings,  which, 
must  take  time  to  unravel,  and  care  to  keep 
unravelled.  I  could  say  a  good  deal  about 
this,  but  I  will  leave  it,  in  hopes  of  better 
and  more  worthy  dispositions  —  and  also 
content  that  I  am  wronging  no  one,  for 
after  all  I  do  think  better  of  womankind 
than  to  suppose  they  care  whether  Mister 
John  Keats  five  feet  high  likes  them  or  not. 
You  appeared  to  wish  to  know  my  moods 
on  this  subject  —  don't  think  it  a  bore  my 
dear  fellow,  it  shall  be  my  Amen.  I  should 
not  have  consented  to  myself  these  four 
months  tramping  in  the  highlands,  but  that 
I  thought  it  would  give  me  more  experi- 
ence, rub  off  more  prejudice,  use  to  more 
hardship,  identify  finer  scenes,  load  me 
with  grander  mountains,  and  strengthen 
more  my  r^ach  in  Poetry,  than  would  stop- 
ping at  home  among  books,  even  though 
I  should  reach  Homer.  By  this  time  I 
am  comparatively  a  Mountaineer.  I  have 
been  among  wilds  and  mountains  too  much 
to  break  out  much  about  their  grandeur. 
I  have  fed  upon  oat-cake  —  not  long 
enough  to  be  very  much  attached  to  it.  — 
The  first  mountains  I  saw,  though  not  so 
large  as  some  I  have  since  seen,  weighed 
very  solemnly  upon  me.  The  effect  is. 
wearing  away  —  yet  I  like  them  mainly. 

[Island  of  Mull,  July  22.] 
We  have  come  this  Evening  with  a  guide 
—  for  without  was  impossible  —  into  the 
middle  of  the  Isle  of  Mull,  pursuing  our 
cheap  journey  to  lona,  and  perhaps  Staffa. 
We  would  not  follow  the  common  and 
fashionable  mode,  from  the  great  Imposi- 
tion of  Expense.  We  have  come  over 
heath  and  rock,  and  river  and  bog,  to  what 
in  England  would  be  called  a  horrid  place. 
Yet  it  belongs  to  a  Shepherd  pretty  well 
off  perhaps.  The  family  speak  not  a  word 


320 


LETTERS   OF  JOHN   KEATS 


but  Gaelic,  and  we  have  not  yet  seen  their 
faces  for  the  smoke,  which,  after  visiting 
every  cranny  (not  excepting  my  eyes  very 
much  incommoded  for  writing),  finds  its 
way  out  at  the  door.  I  am  more  comfort- 
able than  I  could  have  imagined  in  such  a 
place,  and  so  is  Brown.  The  people  are 
all  very  kind  —  We  lost  our  way  a  little 
yesterday;  and  inquiring  at  a  Cottage,  a 
young  woman  without  a  word  threw  on 
her  cloak  and  walked  a  mile  in  a  mizzling 
rain  and  splashy  way  to  put  us  right  again. 
I  could  not  have  had  a  greater  pleasure 
in  these  parts  than  your  mention  of  my 
sister.  She  is  very  much  prisoned  from 
me.  I  am  afraid  it  will  be  some  time  be- 
fore I  can  take  her  to  many  places  I  wish. 
I  trust  we  shall  see  you  ere  long  in  Cum- 
berland —  At  least  I  hope  I  shall,  before 
my  visit  to  America,  more  than  once.  I  in- 
tend to  pass  a  whole  year  there,  if  I  live  to 
the  completion  of  the  three  next.  My  sis- 
ter's welfare,  and  the  hopes  of  such  a  stay 
in  America,  will  make  me  observe  your 
advice.  I  shall  be  prudent  and  more  care- 
ful of  my  health  than  I  have  been.  I  hope 
you  will  be  about  paying  your  first  visit  to 
Town  after  settling  when  we  come  into 
Cumberland  —  Cumberland  however  will 
be  no  distance  to  me  after  my  present 
journey.  I  shall  spin  to  you  in  a  Minute. 
I  begin  to  get  rather  a  contempt  of  dis- 
tances. I  hope  you  will  have  a  nice  con- 
venient room  for  a  library.  Now  you  are 
so  well  in  health,  do  keep  it  up  by  never 
missing  your  dinner,  by  not  reading  hard, 
and  by  taking  proper  exercise.  You  '11 
have  a  horse,  I  suppose,  so  you  must  make 
a  point  of  sweating  him.  You  say  I  must 
study  Dante  —  well,  the  only  Books  I  have 
with  me  are  those  3  little  volumes.41  I  read 
that  fine  passage  you  mention  a  few  days 
ago.  Your  letter  followed  me  from  Hamp- 
stead  to  Port-Patrick,  and  thence  to  Glas- 
gow. You  must  think  me  by  this  time  a 
very  pretty  fellow.  One  of  the  pleasantest 
bouts  we  have  had  was  our  walk  to  Burns's 
Cottage,  over  the  Doon,  and  past  Kirk 


Alloway.  I  had  determined  to  write  a 
Sonnet  in  the  Cottage.  I  did  —  but  lawk! 
it  was  so  wretched  I  destroyed  it  —  how- 
ever in  a  few  days  afterwards  I  wrote  some 
lines  cousin-german  to  the  circumstance, 
which  I  will  transcribe,  or  rather  cross- 
scribe  in  the  front  of  this.  [Here  follow 
the  lines  printed  on  pp.  246,  247.] 

Reynolds's  illness  has  made  him  a  new 
man  —  he  will  be  stronger  than  ever  —  be- 
fore I  left  London  he  was  really  getting  a 
fat  face.  Brown  keeps  on  writing  volumes 
of  adventures  to  Dilke.  When  we  get  in 
of  an  evening  and  I  have  perhaps  taken  my 
rest  on  a  couple  of  chairs,  he  affronts  my 
indolence  and  Luxury  by  pulling  out  of  his 
knapsack  1st  his  paper  —  2ndly  his  pens 
and  last  his  ink.  Now  I  would  not  care  if 
he  would  change  a  little.  I  say  now  why 
not  Bailey,  take  out  his  pens  first  some- 
times —  But  I  might  as  well  tell  a  hen  to 
hold  up  her  head  before  she  drinks  instead 
of  afterwards. 

Your  affectionate  Friend,  JOHN  KEATS. 


64.   TO  THOMAS   KEATS 

Dun  an  cullen,  [Derrynaculan  ?] 

Island  of  Mull  [July  23, 1818]. 
MY  DEAR  TOM  —  Just  after  my  last  had 
gone  to  the  Post,  in  came  one  of  the  Men 
with  whom  we  endeavoured  to  agree  about 
going  to  Staffa  —  he  said  what  a  pity  it  was 
we  should  turn  aside  and  not  see  the  curi- 
osities. So  we  had  a  little  talk,  and  finally 
agreed  that  he  should  be  our  guide  across 
the  Isle  of  Mull.  We  set  out,  crossed  two 
ferries  —  one  to  the  Isle  of  Kerrara,  of 
little  distance  ;  the  other  from  Kerrara  to 
Mull  9  Miles  across  —  we  did  it  in  forty 
minutes  with  a  fine  Breeze.  The  road 
through  the  Island,  or  rather  the  track,  is 
the  most  dreary  you  can  think  of  —  be- 
tween dreary  Mountains,  over  bog  and  rock 
and  river  with  our  Breeches  tucked  up  and 
our  Stockings  in  hand.  About  8  o'Clock 
we  arrived  at  a  shepherd's  Hut,  into  which 
we  could  scarcely  get  for  the  Smoke  through 


TO   THOMAS    KEATS 


321 


a  door  lower  than  my  Shoulders.  We  found 
our  way  into  a  little  compartment  with  the 
rafters  and  turf-thatch  blackened  with 
smoke,  the  earth  floor  full  of  Hills  and 
Dales.  We  had  some  white  Bread  with  us, 
made  a  good  supper,  and  slept  in  our  Clothes 
in  some  Blankets;  our  Guide  snored  on  an- 
other little  bed  about  an  Arm's  length  off. 
This  morning  we  came  about  sax  Miles  to 
Breakfast,  by  rather  a  better  path,  and  we 
are  now  in  by  comparison  a  Mansion.  Our 
Guide  is  I  think  a  very  obliging  fellow  — 
in  the  way  this  morning  he  sang  us  two 
Gaelic  songs  —  one  made  by  a  Mrs.  Brown 
on  her  husband's  being  drowned,  the  other 
a  jacobin  one  on  Charles  Stuart.  For  some 
days  Brown  has  been  enquiring  out  his 
Genealogy  here  —  he  thinks  his  Grand- 
father came  from  long  Island.  He  got  a 
parcel  of  people  about  him  at  a  Cottage 
door  last  Evening,  chatted  with  ane  who 
had  been  a  Miss  Brown,  and  who  I  think 
from  a  likeness,  must  have  been  a  Relation 
—  he  jawed  with  the  old  Woman  —  flattered 
a  young  one  —  kissed  a  child  who  was  afraid 
of  his  Spectacles  and  finally  drank  a  pint  of 
Milk.  They  handle  his  Spectacles  as  we 
do  a  sensitive  leaf. 

[Oban,]  July  26th. 

Well  —  we  had  a  most  wretched  walk  of 
37  Miles  across  the  Island  of  Mull  and 
then  we  crossed  to  lona  or  Icolmkill  — 
from  Icolmkill  we  took  a  boat  at  a  bargain 
to  take  us  to  Staffa  and  land  us  at  the  head 
of  Loch  Nakgal,  [Loch  na  Keal]  whence 
we  should  only  have  to  walk  half  the  dis- 
tance to  Oban  again  and  on  a  better  road. 
All  this  is  well  passed  and  done,  with  this 
singular  piece  of  Luck,  that  there  was  an 
interruption  in  the  bad  Weather  just  as  we 
saw  Staffa  at  which  it  is  impossible  to  land 
but  in  a  tolerable  Calm  sea.  But  I  will  first 
mention  Icolmkill  —  I  know  not  whether 
you  have  heard  much  about  this  Island  ; 
I  never  did  before  I  came  nigh  it.  It  is 
rich  in  the  most  interesting  Antiquities. 
Who  would  expect  to  find  the  ruins  of  a 
fine  Cathedral  Church,  of  Cloisters  Col- 


leges Monasteries  and  Nunneries  in  so  re- 
mote an  Island  ?  The  beginning  of  these 
things  was  in  the  sixth  Century,  under  the 
superstition  of  a  would  -  be  -  Bishop  -  saint, 
who  landed  from  Ireland,  and  chose  the 
spot  from  its  Beauty  —  for  at  that  time 
the  now  treeless  place  was  covered  with 
magnificent  Woods.  Columba  in  the  Gaelic 
is  Colm,  signifying  Dove  —  Kill  signifies 
church,  and  I  is  as  good  as  Island  —  so 
I-colm-kill  means  the  Island  of  Saint  Co- 
lumba's  Church.  Now  this  Saint  Columba 
became  the  Dominic  of  the  barbarian  Chris- 
tians of  the  north  and  was  famed  also  far 
south  —  but  more  especially  was  reverenced 
by  the  Scots  the  Picts  the  Norwegians  the 
Irish.  In  a  course  of  years  perhaps  the 
Island  was  considered  the  most  holy  ground 
of  the  north,  and  the  old  Kings  of  the 
aforementioned  nations  chose  it  for  their 
burial-place.  We  were  shown  a  spot  in  the 
Churchyard  where  they  say  61  Kings  are 
buried  48  Scotch  from  Fergus  II.  to  Mac- 
beth 8  Irish  4  Norwegians  and  1  French  — 
they  lie  in  rows  compact.  Then  we  were 
shown  other  matters  of  later  date,  but  still 
very  ancient — many  tombs  of  Highland 
Chieftains  —  their  effigies  in  complete  ar- 
mour, face  upwards,  black  and  moss-cov- 
ered —  Abbots  and  Bishops  of  the  island 
always  of  one  of  the  chief  Clans.  There 
were  plenty  Macleans  and  Macdonnels; 
among  these  latter,  the  famous  Macdonel 
Lord  of  the  Isles.  There  have  been  300 
Crosses  in  the  Island  but  the  Presbyterians 
destroyed  all  but  two,  one  of  which  is  a 
very  fine  one,  and  completely  covered  with 
a  shaggy  coarse  Moss.  The  old  School- 
master, an  ignorant  little  man  but  reckoned 
very  clever,  showed  us  these  things.  He 
is  a  Maclean,  and  as  much  above  4  foot  as 
he  is  under  4  foot  three  inches.  He  stops 
at  one  glass  of  whisky  unless  you  press  an- 
other and  at  the  second  unless  you  press  a 
third  — 

I  am  puzzled  how  to  give  you  an  Idea  of 
Staffa.  It  can  only  be  represented  by  a 
first-rate  drawing.  One  may  compare  the 


LETTERS   OF   JOHN    KEATS 


surface  of  the  Island  to  a  roof  —  this  roof 
is  supported  by  grand  pillars  of  basalt 
standing  together  as  thick  as  honeycombs. 
The  finest  thing  is  Fingal's  Cave  —  it  is 
entirely  a  hollowing  out  of  Basalt  Pillars. 
Suppose  now  the  Giants  who  rebelled 
against  Jove  had  taken  a  whole  Mass  of 
black  Columns  and  bound  them  together 
like  bunches  of  matches  —  and  then  with 
immense  axes  had  made  a  cavern  in  the 
body  of  these  columns  —  Of  course  the 
roof  and  floor  must  be  composed  of  the 
broken  ends  of  the  Columns  —  such  is  Fin- 
gal's  Cave,  except  that  the  Sea  has  done 
the  work  of  excavations,  and  is  continually 
dashing  there  —  so  that  we  walk  along  the 
sides  of  the  cave  on  the  pillars  which  are 
left  as  if  for  convenient  stairs.  The  roof 
is  arched  somewhat  gothic-wise,  and  the 
length  of  some  of  the  entire  side-pillars  is 
fifty  feet.  About  the  island  you  might  seat 
an  army  of  Men  each  on  a  pillar.  The 
length  of  the  Cave  is  120  feet,  and  from 
its  extremity  the  view  into  the  sea,  through 
the  large  Arch  at  the  entrance  —  the  colour 
of  the  columns  is  a  sort  of  black  with  a 
lurking  gloom  of  purple  therein.  For  so- 
lemnity and  grandeur  it  far  surpasses  the 
finest  Cathedral.  At  the  extremity  of  the 
Cave  there  is  a  small  perforation  into  an- 
other cave,  at  which  the  waters  meeting 
and  buffeting  each  other  there  is  sometimes 
produced  a  report  as  of  a  cannon  heard  as 
far  as  lona,  which  must  be  12  Miles.  As 
we  approached  in  the  boat,  there  was  such 
a  fine  swell  of  the  sea  that  the  pillars  ap- 
peared rising  immediately  out  of  the  crystal. 
But  it  is  impossible  to  describe  it.  [The 
lines  '  At  Fingal's  Cave,'  p.  122,  are  here 
given  in  a  variant.] 

I  am  sorry  I  am  so  indolent  as  to  write 
such  stuff  as  this.  It  can't  be  helped.  The 
western  coast  of  Scotland  is  a  most  strange 
place  —  it  is  composed  of  rocks,  Mountains, 
mountainous  and  rocky  Islands  intersected 
by  lochs  —  you  can  go  but  a  short  distance 
anywhere  from  salt  water  in  the  highlands. 

1  have  a  slight  sore  throat  and  think  it 


best  to  stay  a  day  or  two  at  Oban  —  then 
we  shall  proceed  to  Fort  William  and 
Inverness,  where  I  am  anxious  to  be  on  ac- 
count of  a  Letter  from  you.  Brown  in  his 
Letters  puts  down  every  little  circum- 
stance. I  should  like  to  do  the  same,  but 
I  confess  myself  too  indolent,  and  besides 
next  winter  everything  will  come  up  in 
prime  order  as  we  verge  on  such  and  such 
things. 

Have  you  heard  in  any  way  of  George  ? 
I  should  think  by  this  time  he  must  have 
landed.  I  in  my  carelessness  never  thought 
of  knowing  where  a  letter  would  find  him 
on  the  other  side  —  I  think  Baltimore,  but 
I  am  afraid  of  directing  it  to  the  wrong 
place.  I  shall  begin  some  chequer  work 
for  him  directly,  and  it  will  be  ripe  for  the 
post  by  the  time  I  hear  from  you  next  after 
this.  I  assure  you  I  often  long  for  a  seat 
and  a  Cup  o'  tea  at  Well  Walk,  especially 
now  that  mountains,  castles,  and  Lakes  are 
becoming  common  to  me.  Yet  I  would 
rather  summer  it  out,  for  on  the  whole  I 
am  happier  than  when  I  have  time  to  be 
glum  —  perhaps  it  may  cure  me.  Immedi- 
ately on  my  return  I  shall  begin  studying 
hard,  with  a  peep  at  the  theatre  now  and 
then  —  and  depend  upon  it  I  shall  be  very 
luxurious.  With  respect  to  Women  I  think 
I  shall  be  able  to  conquer  my  passions 
hereafter  better  than  I  have  yet  done.  You 
will  help  me  to  talk  of  George  next  winter, 
and  we  will  go  now  and  then  to  see  Fanny. 
Let  me  hear  a  good  account  of  your  health 
and  comfort,  telling  me  truly  how  you  do 
alone.  Remember  me  to  all  including  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Bentley. 

Your  most  affectionate  Brother 

JOHN. 

65.    TO  THE  SAME 

Letter  Findlay,  August  3  [1818]. 

Ah  mio  Ben. 

MY  DEAR  TOM  —  We  have  made  but 
poor  progress  lately,  chiefly  from  bad 
weather,  for  my  throat  is  in  a  fair  way  of 
getting  quite  well,  so  I  have  had  nothing 


TO   THOMAS    KEATS 


323 


of  consequence  to  tell  you  till  yesterday 
when  we  went  up  Ben  Nevis,  the  highest 
Mountain  in  Great  Britain.  On  that  ac- 
count I  will  never  ascend  another  in  this 
empire  —  Skiddaw  is  nothing  to  it  either  in 
height  or  in  difficulty.  It  is  above  4300 
feet  from  the  Sea  level,  and  Fortwilliam 
stands  at  the  head  of  a  Salt  water  Lake, 
consequently  we  took  it  completely  from 
that  level.  I  am  heartily  glad  it  is  done  — 
it  is  almost  like  a  fly  crawling  up  a  wain-  j 
scoat.  Imagine  the  task  of  mounting  ten 
Saint  Pauls  without  the  convenience  of 
Staircases.  We  set  out  about  five  in  the 
morning  with  a  Guide  in  the  Tartan  and 
Cap,  and  soon  arrived  at  the  foot  of  the 
first  ascent  which  we  immediately  began 
upon.  After  much  fag  and  tug  and  a  rest 
and  a  glass  of  whisky  apiece  we  gained  the 
top  of  the  first  rise  and  saw  then  a  tre- 
mendous chap  above  us,  which  the  guide 
said  was  still  far  from  the  top.  After  the 
first  Rise  our  way  lay  along  a  heath  valley 
in  which  there  was  a  Loch  —  after  about  a 
Mile  in  this  Valley  we  began  upon  the  next 
ascent,  more  formidable  by  far  than  the 
last,  and  kept  mounting  with  short  inter- 
vals of  rest  until  we  got  above  all  vegeta- 
tion, among  nothing  but  loose  Stones  which 
lasted  us  to  the  very  top.  The  Guide  said 
we  had  three  Miles  of  a  stony  ascent  —  we 
gained  the  first  tolerable  level  after  the 
valley  to  the  height  of  what  in  the  Valley 
we  had  thought  the  top  and  saw  still  above 
us  another  huge  crag  which  still  the  Guide 
said  was  not  the  top  —  to  that  we  made 
with  an  obstinate  fag,  and  having  gained  it 
there  came  on  a  Mist,  so  that  from  that 
part  to  the  very  top  we  walked  in  a  Mist. 
The  whole  immense  head  of  the  Mountain 
is  composed  of  large  loose  stones  —  thou- 
sands of  acres.  Before  we  had  got  half- 
way up  we  passed  large  patches  of  snow 
and  near  the  top  there  is  a  chasm  some 
hundred  feet  deep  completely  glutted  with 
it.  —  Talking  of  chasms  they  are  the  finest 
wonder  of  the  whole  —  they  appear  great 
rents  in  the  very  heart  of  the  mountain 


though  they  are  not,  being  at  the  side  of  it, 
but  other  huge  crags  arising  round  it  give 
the  appearance  to  Nevis  of  a  shattered 
heart  or  Core  in  itself.  These  Chasms  are 
1500  feet  in  depth  and  are  the  most  tre- 
mendous places  I  have  ever  seen  —  they 
turn  one  giddy  if  you  choose  to  give  way 
to  it.  We  tumbled  in  large  stones  and  set 
the  echoes  at  work  in  fine  style.  Some- 
times these  chasms  are  tolerably  clear, 
sometimes  there  is  a  misty  cloud  which 
seems  to  steam  up  and  sometimes  they  are 
entirely  smothered  with  clouds. 

After  a  little  time  the  Mist  cleared  away 
but  still  there  were  large  Clouds  about  at- 
tracted by  old  Ben  to  a  certain  distance  so 
as  to  form  as  it  appeared  large  dome  cur- 
tains which  kept  sailing  about,  opening  and 
shutting  at  intervals  here  and  there  aiid 
everywhere:  so  that  although  we  did  not 
see  one  vast  wide  extent  of  prospect  all 
round  we  saw  something  perhaps  finer  — 
these  cloud  veils  opening  with  a  dissolving 
motion  and  showing  us  the  mountainous 
region  beneath  as  through  a  loophole  — 
these  cloudy  loopholes  ever  varying  and 
discovering  fresh  prospect  east,  west,  north 
and  south.  Then  it  was  misty  again,  and 
again  it  was  fair  —  then  puff  came  a  cold 
breeze  of  wind  and  bared  a  craggy  chap  we 
had  not  yet  seen  though  in  close  neigh- 
bourhood. Every  now  and  then  we  had 
overhead  blue  Sky  clear  and  the  sun  pretty 
warm.  I  do  not  know  whether  I  can  give 
you  an  Idea  of  the  prospect  from  a  large 
Mountain  top.  You  are  on  a  stony  plain 
which  of  course  makes  you  forget  you  are 
on  any  but  low  ground  —  the  horizon  or 
rather  edges  of  this  plain  being  above  4000 
feet  above  the  Sea  hide  all  the  Country 
immediately  beneath  you,  so  that  the  next 
object  you  see  all  round  next  to  the  edges 
of  the  flat  top  are  the  Summits  of  Moun- 
tains of  some  distance  off.  As  you  move 
about  on  all  sides  you  see  more  or  less  of 
the  near  neighbour  country  according  as 
the  Mountain  you  stand  upon  is  in  different 
parts  steep  or  rounded  —  but  the  most  new 


324 


LETTERS   OF   JOHN   KEATS 


thing  of  all  is  the  sudden  leap  of  the  eye 
from  the  extremity  of  what  appears  a  plain 
into  so  vast  a  distance.  On  one  part  of  the 
top  there  is  a  handsome  pile  of  Stones  done 
pointedly  by  some  soldiers  of  artillery;  I 
clim[b]ed  on  to  them  and  so  got  a  little 
higher  than  old  Ben  himself.  It  was  not 
so  cold  as  I  expected  —  yet  cold  enough  for 
a  glass  of  Whisky  now  and  then.  There 
is  not  a  more  fickle  thing  than  the  top  of 
a  Mountain  —  what  would  a  Lady  give  to 
change  her  head-dress  as  often  and  with  as 
little  trouble!  —  There  are  a  good  many 
red  deer  upon  Ben  Nevis  — -  we  did  not  see 
one  —  the  dog  we  had  with  us  kept  a  very 
sharp  look  out  and  really  languished  for 
a  bit  of  a  worry.  I  have  said  nothing  yet 
of  our  getting  on  among  the  loose  stones 
large  and  small  sometimes  on  two,  some- 
times on  three,  sometimes  four  legs  — 
sometimes  two  and  stick,  sometimes  three 
and  stick,  then  four  again,  then  two,  then 
a  jump,  so  that  we  kept  on  ringing  changes 
on  foot,  hand,  stick,  jump,  boggle,  stumble, 
foot,  hand,  foot  (very  gingerly),  stick  again, 
and  then  again  a  game  at  all  fours.  After 
all  there  was  one  Mrs.  Cameron  of  50  years 
of  age  and  the  fattest  woman  in  all  Inver- 
ness-shire who  got  up  this  Mountain  some 
few  years  ago  —  true  she  had  her  servants 
—  but  then  she  had  her  self.  She  ought 
to  have  hired  Sisyphus,  —  '  Up  the  high 
hill  he  heaves  a  huge  round  —  Mrs.  Came- 
ron.' 'Tis  said  a  little  conversation  took 
place  between  the  mountain  and  the  Lady. 
After  taking  a  glass  of  Whisky  as  she  was 
tolerably  seated  at  ease  she  thus  began  — 

[Here  follow  the  nonsense  verses  and  inter- 
calary sentences,  given  on  pp.  247,  248.] 

Over  leaf  you  will  find  a  Sonnet  I  wrote 
on  the  top  of  Ben  Nevis,  [see  p.  123].  We 
have  just  entered  Inverness.  I  have  three 
Letters  from  you  and  one  from  Fanny  — 
and  one  from  Dilke.  I  would  set  about 
crossing  this  all  over  for  you  but  I  will  first 
write  to  Fanny  and  Mrs.  Wylie.  Then  I 
will  begin  another  to  you  and  not  before 
because  I  think  it  better  you  should  have 


this  as  soon  as  possible.  My  Sore  throat  is 
not  quite  well  and  I  intend  stopping  here  a 
few  days. 

Good-bye  till  to  morrow. 

Your  most  affectionate  Brother 

JOHN . 


bb.      TO  MRS.  WYLIE 

Inverness,  August  6  [1818]. 

MY  DEAR  MADAM  —  It  was  a  great  regret 
to  me  that  I  should  leave  all  my  friends, 
just  at  the  moment  when  I  might  have 
helped  to  soften  away  the  time  for  them. 
I  wanted  not  to  leave  my  brother  Tom,  but 
more  especially,  believe  me,  I  should  like 
to  have  remained  near  you,  were  it  but  for 
an  atom  of  consolation  after  parting  with 
so  dear  a  daughter.  My  brother  George 
has  ever  been  more  than  a  brother  to  me  ; 
he  has  been  my  greatest  friend,  and  I  can 
never  forget  the  sacrifice  you  have  made 
for  his  happiness.  As  I  walk  along  the 
Mountains  here  I  am  full  of  these  things, 
and  lay  in  wait,  as  it  were,  for  the  pleasure 
of  seeing  you  immediately  on  my  return  to 
town.  I  wish,  above  all  things,  to  say  a 
word  of  Comfort  to  you,  but  I  know  not 
how.  It  is  impossible  to  prove  that  black 
is  white;  it  is  impossible  to  make  out  that 
sorrow  is  joy,  or  joy  is  sorrow. 

Tom  tells  me  that  you  called  on  Mr. 
Haslam,  with  a  newspaper  giving  an  ac- 
count of  a  gentleman  in  a  Fur  cap  falling 
over  a  precipice  in  Kirkcudbrightshire.  If 
it  was  me,  I  did  it  in  a  dream,  or  in  some 
magic  interval  between  the  first  and  second 
cup  of  tea;  which  is  nothing  extraordinary 
when  we  hear  that  Mahomet,  in  getting  out 
of  Bed,  upset  a  jug  of  water,  and,  whilst  it 
was  falling,  took  a  fortnight's  trip,  as  it 
seemed,  to  Heaven;  yet  was  back  in  time 
to  save  one  drop  of  water  being  spilt.  As 
for  Fur  caps,  I  do  not  remember  one  beside 
my  own,  except  at  Carlisle :  this  was  a  very 
good  Fur  cap  I  met  in  High  Street,  and  I 
daresay  was  the  unfortunate  one.  I  daresay 
that  the  fates,  seeing  but  two  Fur  caps  in 


TO   FANNY  KEATS 


325 


the  north,  thought  it  too  extraordinary,  and 
so  threw  the  dies  which  of  them  should  be 
drowned.  The  lot  fell  upon  Jones:  I  dare- 
say his  name  was  Jones.  All  I  hope  is  that 
the  gaunt  Ladies  said  not  a  word  about 
hanging;  if  they  did  I  shall  repent  that  I 
was  not  half-drowned  in  Kirkcudbright. 
Stop  !  let  me  see  !  —  being  half-drowned 
by  falling  from  a  precipice,  is  a  very  ro- 
mantic affair:  why  should  I  not  take  it  to 
myself?  How  glorious  to  be  introduced 
in  a  drawing-room  to  a  Lady  who  reads 
Novels,  with  '  Mr.  So-and-so  —  Miss  So- 
and-so  ;  Miss  So-and-so,  this  is  Mr.  So-and- 
so,  who  fell  off  a  precipice  and  was  half- 
drowned.'  Now  I  refer  to  you,  whether  I 
should  lose  so  fine  an  opportunity  of  mak- 
ing my  fortune.  No  romance  lady  could 
resist  me  —  none.  Being  run  under  a 
Waggon  —  sidelamed  in  a  playhouse,  Apo- 
plectic through  Brandy  —  and  a  thousand 
other  tolerably  decent  things  for  badness, 
would  be  nothing,  but  being  tumbled  over 
a  precipice  into  the  sea  —  oh!  it  would 
make  my  fortune  —  especially  if  you  could 
contrive  to  hint,  from  this  bulletin's  author- 
ity, that  I  was  not  upset  on  my  own  account, 
but  that  I  dashed  into  the  waves  after  Jessy 
of  Dumblane,  and  pulled  her  out  by  the 
hair.  But  that,  alas  !  she  was  dead,  or  she 
would  have  made  me  happy  with  her  hand 
—  however  in  this  you  may  use  your  own 
discretion.  But  I  must  leave  joking,  and 
seriously  aver,  that  I  have  been  very  ro- 
mantic indeed  among  these  Mountains  and 
Lakes.  I  have  got  wet  through,  day  after 
day  —  eaten  oat-cake,  and  drank  Whisky  — 
walked  up  to  my  knees  in  Bog  —  got  a  sore 
throat  —  gone  to  see  Icolmkill  and  Staffa; 
met  with  wholesome  food  just  here  and 
there  as  it  happened  —  went  up  Ben  Nevis, 
and  —  N.  B.,  came  down  again.  Some- 
times when  I  am  rather  tired  I  lean  rather 
languishingly  on  a  rock,  and  long  for  some 
famous  Beauty  to  get  down  from  her  Pal- 
frey in  passing,  approach  me,  with  —  her 
saddle-bags,  and  give  me  —  a  dozen  or  two 
capital  roastbeef  Sandwiches. 


When  I  come  into  a  large  town,  you 
know  there  is  no  putting  one's  Knapsack 
into  one's  fob,  so  the  people  stare.  We 
have  been  taken  for  Spectacle  -  vendors, 
Razor-sellers,  Jewellers,  travelling  linen- 
drapers,  Spies,  Excisemen,  and  many  things 
I  have  no  idea  of.  When  I  asked  for 
letters  at  Port  Patrick,  the  man  asked  what 
regiment  ?  I  have  had  a  peep  also  at  little 
Ireland.  Tell  Henry  I  have  not  camped 
quite  on  the  bare  Earth  yet,  but  nearly 
as  bad,  in  walking  through  Mull,  for  the 
Shepherds'  huts  you  can  scarcely  breathe 
in,  for  the  Smoke  which  they  seem  to  en- 
deavour to  preserve  for  smoking  on  a  large 
scale.  Besides  riding  about  400,  we  have 
walked  above  600  Miles,  and  may  there- 
fore reckon  ourselves  as  set  out. 

I  assure  you,  my  dear  Madam,  that  one 
of  the  greatest  pleasures  I  shall  have  on 
my  return,  will  be  seeing  you,  and  that  I 
shall  ever  be 

Yours,  with  the  greatest  respect  and 
sincerity,  JOHN  KEATS. 

67.      TO  FANNY  KEATS 

Hampstead,  August  18  [1818]. 
MY  DEAR  FANNY  —  I  am  afraid  you  will 
think  me  very  negligent  in  not  having 
answered  your  Letter  —  I  see  it  is  dated 
June  12.  I  did  not  arrive  at  Inverness  till 
the  8th  of  this  Month  so  I  am  very  much 
concerned  at  your  being  disappointed  so 
long  a  time.  I  did  not  intend  to  have 
returned  to  London  so  soon  but  have  a  bad 
sore  throat  from  a  cold  I  caught  in  the 
island  of  Mull:  therefore  I  thought  it  best 
to  get  home  as  soon  as  possible,  and  went 
on  board  the  Smack  from  Cromarty.  We 
had  a  nine  days'  passage  and  were  landed 
at  London  Bridge  yesterday.  I  shall  have 
a  good  deal  to  tell  you  about  Scotland  — 
I  would  begin  here  but  I  have  a  confounded 
toothache.  Tom  has  not  been  getting  better 
since  I  left  London  and  for  the  last  fort- 
night has  been  worse  than  ever  —  he  has 
been  getting  a  little  better  for  these  two  or 


326 


LETTERS   OF   JOHN   KEATS 


three  days.  I  shall  ask  Mr.  Abbey  to  let 
me  bring  you  to  Hampstead.  If  Mr.  A. 
should  see  this  Letter  tell  him  that  he  still 
must  if  he  pleases  forward  the  Post  Bill 
to  Perth  as  I  have  empowered  my  fellow 
traveller  to  receive  it.  I  have  a  few  Scotch 
pebbles  for  you  from  the  Island  of  Icolm- 
kill  —  I  am  afraid  they  are  rather  shabby 

—  I  did  not  go  near  the  Mountain  of  Cairn 
Gorm.      I   do    not    know    the    Name   of 
George's  ship  —  the  Name  of  the  Port  he 
has  gone  to  is  Philadelphia  whence  he  will 
travel  to  the  Settlement  across  the  Country 

—  I  will  tell  you  all  about  this  when  I  see 
you.     The  Title  of  my  last  Book  is  Endy- 
mion  —  you  shall  have  one  soon.  —  I  would 
not  advise  you  to  play  on  the  Flageolet  — 
however  I  will  get  you  one  if  you  please. 
I  will  speak  to  Mr.  Abbey  on  what  you  say 
concerning  school.     I  am  sorry  for   your 
poor    Canary.      You   shall    have    another 
volume  of  my  first  Book.     My  toothache 
keeps  on  so  that  I  cannot  write  with  any 
pleasure  —  all  I  can  say  now  is  that  your 
Letter  is  a  very  nice  one  without  fault  and 
that  you  will  hear  from  or  see  in  a  few 
days  if  his  throat  will  let  him, 

Your  affectionate  Brother  JOHN. 

68.      TO  THE  SAME 

Hampstead,  Tuesday  [August  25,  1818]. 

MY  DEAR  FANNY  —  I  have  just  written 
to  Mr.  Abbey  to  ask  him  to  let  you  come 
and  see  poor  Tom  who  has  lately  been 
much  worse.  He  is  better  at  present  — 
sends  his  Love  to  you  and  wishes  much  to 
see  you  —  I  hope  he  will  shortly  —  I  have 
not  been  able  to  come  to  Walthamstow  on 
his  account  as  well  as  a  little  Indisposition 
of  my  own.  I  have  asked  Mr.  A.  to  write 
me  —  if  he  does  not  mention  anything  of  it 
to  you,  I  will  tell  you  what  reasons  he 
has  though  I  do  not  think  he  will  make  any 
objection.  Write  me  what  you  want  with 
a  Flageolet  and  I  will  get  one  ready  for 
you  by  the  time  you  come. 

Your  affectionate  Brother  JOHN . 


69.      TO   JANE   REYNOLDS 

Well  Walk,  September  1st  [1818]. 

MY  DEAR  JANE  —  Certainly  your  kind 
note  would  rather  refresh  than  trouble  me, 
and  so  much  the  more  would  your  coming 
if  as  you  say,  it  could  be  done  without 
agitating  my  Brother  too  much.  Receive 
on  your  Hearth  our  deepest  thanks  for  your 
Solicitude  concerning  us. 

I  am  glad  John  is  not  hurt,  but  gone  safe 
into  Devonshire  —  I  shall  be  in  great  ex- 
pectation of  his  Letter  —  but  the  promise 
of  it  in  so  anxious  and  friendly  a  way  I 
prize  more  than  a  hundred.  I  shall  be  in 
town  to-day  on  some  business  with  my 
guardian  *  as  was '  with  scarce  a  hope  of 
being  able  to  call  on  you.  For  these  two 
last  days  Tom  has  been  more  cheerful :  you 
shall  hear  again  soon  how  he  will  be. 

Remember  us  particularly  to  your  Mo- 
ther. 

Your  sincere  friend          JOHN  KEATS. 


70.      TO  CHARLES   WENT  WORTH   DILKE 

[Hampstead,  September  21,  1818.] 
MY  DEAR  DILKE  —  According  to  the 
Wentworth  place  Bulletin  you  have  left 
Brighton  much  improved  :  therefore  now  a 
few  lines  will  be  more  of  a  pleasure  than 
a  bore.  I  have  things  to  say  to  you,  and 
would  fain  begin  upon  them  in  this  fourth 
line  :  but  I  have  a  Mind  too  well  regulated 
to  proceed  upon  anything  without  due  pre- 
liminary remarks.  —  You  may  perhaps  have 
observed  that  in  the  simple  process  of  eat- 
ing radishes  I  never  begin  at  the  root  but 
constantly  dip  the  little  green  head  in  the 
salt  —  that  in  the  Game  of  Whist  if  I  have 
an  ace  I  constantly  play  it  first.  So  how 
can  I  with  any  face  begin  without  a  disser- 
tation on  letter-writing  ?  Yet  when  I  con- 
sider that  a  sheet  of  paper  contains  room 
only  for  three  pages  and  a  half,  how  can 
I  do  justice  to  such  a  pregnant  subject  ? 
However,  as  you  have  seen  the  history  of 
the  world  stamped  as  it  were  by  a  dimin- 


TO   JOHN   HAMILTON   REYNOLDS 


327 


ishiug  glass  in  the  form  of  a  chronological 
Map,  so  will  I  '  with  retractile  claws ' 
draw  this  into  the  form  of  a  table  — 
whereby  it  will  occupy  merely  the  remain- 
der of  this  first  page  — 

Folio  —  Parsons,  Lawyers,  Statesmen, 
Physicians  out  of  place  —  ut  —  Eus- 
tace—  Thornton — out  of  practice  or 
on  their  travels. 

Foolscap  —  1.  Superfine  —  Rich  or  no- 
ble poets  —  ut  Byron.  2.  common  ut 
egomet. 

Quarto  —  Projectors,  Patentees,  Presi- 
dents, Potato  growers. 

Bath  —  Boarding  schools,  and  suburbans 
in  general. 

Gilt  edge  —  Dandies  in  general,  male, 
female,  and  literary. 

Octavo  or  tears  —  All  who  make  use  of 
a  lascivious  seal. 

Duodec.  —  May  be  found  for  the  most 
part  on  Milliners'  and  Dressmakers' 
Parlour  tables. 

Strip  —  At  the  Playhouse-doors,  or  any- 
where. 

Slip — Being  but  a  variation. 

Snip  —  So  called  from  its  size  being  dis- 
guised by  a  twist. 

I  suppose  you  will  have  heard  that  Haz- 
litt  has  on  foot  a  prosecution  against  Black- 
wood.  I  dined  with  him  a  few  days  since 
at  Hessey's  —  there  was  not  a  word  said 
about  it,  though  I  understand  he  is  exces- 
sively vexed.  Reynolds,  by  what  I  hear, 
is  almost  over-happy,  and  Rice  is  in  town. 
I  have  not  seen  him,  nor  shall  I  for  some 
time,  as  my  throat  has  become  worse  after 
getting  well,  and  I  am  determined  to  stop 
at  home  till  I  am  quite  well.  I  was  going 
to  Town  to-morrow  with  Mrs.  D.  but  I 
thought  it  best  to  ask  her  excuse  this  morn- 
ing. I  wish  I  could  say  Tom  was  any 
better.  His  identity  presses  upon  me  so 
all  day  that  I  am  obliged  to  go  out  —  and 
although  I  intended  to  have  given  some 
time  to  study  alone,  I  am  obliged  to  write 


and  plunge  into  abstract  images  to  ease 
myself  of  his  countenance,  his  voice,  and 
feebleness  —  so  that  I  live  now  in  a  con- 
tinual fever.  It  must  be  poisonous  to  life, 
although  I  feel  well.  Imagine  *  the  hate- 
ful siege  of  contraries '  —  if  I  think  of 
fame,  of  poetry,  it  seems  a  crime  to  me, 
and  yet  I  must  do  so  or  suffer.  I  am  sorry 
to  give  you  pain  —  I  am  almost  resolved 
to  burn  this  —  but  I  really  have  not  self- 
possession  and  magnanimity  enough  to 
manage  the  thing  otherwise  —  after  all  it 
may  be  a  nervousness  proceeding  from  the 
Mercury. 

Bailey  I  hear  is  gaining  his  spirits,  and 
he  will  yet  be  what  I  once  thought  impossi- 
ble, a  cheerful  Man  —  I  think  he  is  not 
quite  so  much  spoken  of  in  Little  Britain. 
I  forgot  to  ask  Mrs.  Dilke  if  she  had  any- 
thing she  wanted  to  say  immediately  to  you. 
This  morning  look'd  so  unpromising  that  I 
did  not  think  she  would  have  gone  —  but  I 
find  she  has,  on  sending  for  some  volumes 
of  Gibbon.  I  was  in  a  little  funk  yes- 
terday, for  I  sent  in  an  unseal'd  note  of 
sham  abuse,  until  I  recollected,  from  what 
I  heard  Charles  say,  that  the  servant  could 
neither  read  nor  write  —  not  even  to  her 
Mother  as  Charles  observed.  I  have  just 
had  a  Letter  from  Reynolds  —  he  is  going 
on  gloriously.  The  following  is  a  transla- 
tion of  a  line  of  Ronsard  — 

'  Love  pour'd  her  beauty  into  my  warm  veins.' 

You  have  passed  your  Romance,  and  I 
never  gave  in  to  it,  or  else  I  think  this  line 
a  feast  for  one  of  your  Lovers.  How  goes 
it  with  Brown  ? 

Your  sincere  friend         JOHN  KEATS. 

71.      TO  JOHN  HAMILTON  REYNOLDS 

[Hampstead,  about  September  22,  1818.] 
MY  DEAR  REYNOLDS  —  Believe  me  I 
have  rather  rejoiced  at  your  happiness  than 
fretted  at  your  silence.  Indeed  I  am 
grieved  on  your  account  that  I  am  not  at 
the  same  time  happy  —  But  I  conjure  you 


328 


LETTERS    OF   JOHN    KEATS 


to  think  at  Present  of  nothing  but  plea- 
sure—  'Gather  the  rose,  etc.'  — gorge  the 
honey  of  life.  I  pity  you  as  much  that  it 
cannot  last  for  ever,  as  I  do  myself  now 
drinking  bitters.  Give  yourself  up  to  it  — 
you  cannot  help  it  —  and  I  have  a  Consola- 
tion in  thinking  so.  I  never  was  in  love  — 
Yet  the  voice  and  shape  of  a  Woman 42  has 
haunted  me  these  two  days  —  at  such  a 
time,  when  the  relief,  the  feverous  relief 
of  Poetry  seems  a  much  less  crime  —  This 
morning  Poetry  has  conquered  —  I  have 
relapsed  into  those  abstractions  which  are 
my  only  life  —  I  feel  escaped  from  a  new 
strange  and  threatening  sorrow  —  And  I  am 
thankful  for  it  —  There  is  an  awful  warmth 
about  my  heart  like  a  load  of  Immortality. 

Poor  Tom  —  that  woman  —  and  Poetry 
were  ringing  changes  in  my  senses  —  Now 
I  am  in  comparison  happy  —  I  am  sensible 
this  will  distress  you  —  you  must  forgive 
me.  Had  I  known  you  would  have  set  out 
so  soon  I  could  have  sent  you  the  '  Pot  of 
Basil '  for  I  had  copied  it  out  ready.  —  Here 
is  a  free  translation  of  a  Sonnet  of  Eon- 
sard  [see  p.  123],  which  I  think  will 
please  you  —  I  have  the  loan  of  his  works 
—  they  have  great  Beauties. 

I  had  not  the  original  by  me  when  I  wrote 
it,  and  did  not  recollect  the  purport  of  the 
last  lines. 

I  should  have  seen  Rice  ere  this  —  but  I 
am  confined  by  Sawrey's  mandate  in  the 
house  now,  and  have  as  yet  only  gone  out 
in  fear  of  the  damp  night.  —  You  know 
what  an  undangerous  matter  it  is.  I  shall 
soon  be  quite  recovered  —  Your  offer  I 
shall  remember  as  though  it  had  even  now 
taken  place  in  fact  —  I  think  it  cannot  be. 
Tom  is  not  up  yet  —  I  cannot  say  he  is 
better.  I  have  not  heard  from  George. 

Your  affectionate  friend  JOHN  KEATS. 

72.      TO  FANNY  KEATS 

[Hampstead,  October  9,  1818.] 
MY  DEAR  FANNY  —  Poor  Tom  is  about 
the  same  as  when  you  saw  him  last ;  per- 


weaker  —  were  it  not  for  that  I 
should  have  been  over  to  pay  you  a  visit 
these  fine  days.  I  got  to  the  stage  half  an 
hour  before  it  set  out  and  counted  the  buns 
and  tarts  in  a  Pastry-cook's  window  and 
was  just  beginning  with  the  Jellies.  There 
was  no  one  in  the  Coach  who  had  a  Mind 
to  eat  me  like  Mr.  Sham-deaf.  I  shall  be 
punctual  in  enquiring  about  next  Thurs- 
day— 

Your  affectionate  Brother  JOHN. 

73.      TO  JAMES   AUGUSTUS  HESSEY 

[Hampstead,  October  9,  1818.] 
MY  DEAR  HESSEY  —  You  are  very  good 
in  sending  me  the  letters  from  the  Chroni- 
cle —  and  I  am  very  bad  in  not  acknowledg- 
ing such  a  kindness  sooner  —  pray  forgive 
me.  It  has  so  chanced  that  I  have  had 
that  paper  every  day  —  I  have  seen  to- 
day's. I  cannot  but  feel  indebted  to  those 
Gentlemen  who  have  taken  my  part  —  As 
for  the  rest,  I  begin  to  get  a  little  ac- 
quainted with  my  own  strength  and  weak- 
ness. —  Praise  or  blame  has  but  a  momen- 
tary effect  on  the  man  whose  love  of  beauty 
in  the  abstract  makes  him  a  severe  critic 
on  his  own  Works.  My  own  domestic 
criticism  has  given  me  pain  without  com- 
parison beyond  what  Blackwood  or  the 
Quarterly  could  possibly  inflict  —  and  also 
when  I  feel  I  am  right,  no  external  praise 
can  give  me  such  a  glow  as  my  own  solitary 
reperception  and  ratification  of  what  is 
fine.  J.  S.  is  perfectly  right  in  regard  to 
the  slip-shod  Endymion.43  That  it  is  so  is  no 
fault  of  mine.  No  !  —  though  it  may  sound 
a  little  paradoxical.  It  is  as  good  as  I  had 
power  to  make  it  —  by  myself  —  Had  I 
been  nervous  about  its  being  a  perfect  piece, 
and  with  that  view  asked  advice,  and  trem- 
bled over  every  page,  it  would  not  have 
been  written  ;  for  it  is  not  in  my  nature  to 
fumble  —  I  will  write  independently.  —  I 
have  written  independently  without  Judg- 
ment. I  may  write  independently,  and 
with  Judgment,  hereafter.  The  Genius  of 


TO  GEORGE  AND  GEORGIANA  KEATS 


329 


Poetry  must  work  out  its  own  salvation  in 
a  man  :  It  cannot  be  matured  by  law  and 
precept,  but  by  sensation  and  watchfulness 
in  itself  —  That  which  is  creative  must 
create  itself  —  In  Endymion,  I  leaped  head- 
long into  the  sea,  and  thereby  have  become 
better  acquainted  with  the  Soundings,  the 
quicksands,  and  the  rocks,  than  if  I  had 
stayed  upon  the  green  shore,  and  piped  a 
silly  pipe,  and  took  tea  and  comfortable 
advice.  I  was  never  afraid  of  failure  ;  for 
I  would  sooner  fail  than  not  be  among  the 
greatest  —  But  I  am  nigh  getting  into  a 
rant.  So,  with  remembrances  to  Taylor 
and  Woodhouse  etc.  I  am 

Yours  very  sincerely       JOHN  KEATS. 

74.   TO  GEORGE  AND  GEORGIANA  KEATS 

[Hampstead,  October  13  or  14,  1818.] 
MY  DEAR  GEORGE  —  There  was  a  part 
in  your  Letter  which  gave  me  a  great  deal 
of  pain,  that  where  you  lament  not  receiv- 
ing Letters  from  England.  I  intended  to 
have  written  immediately  on  my  return 
from  Scotland  (which  was  two  Months 
earlier  than  I  had  intended  on  account  of 
my  own  as  well  as  Tom's  health)  but  then 
I  was  told  by  Mrs.  W.  that  you  had  said 
you  would  not  wish  any  one  to  write  till 
we  had  heard  from  you.  This  I  thought 
odd  and  now  I  see  that  it  could  not  have 
been  so  ;  yet  at  the  time  I  suffered  my  un- 
reflecting head  to  be  satisfied,  and  went  on 
in  that  sort  of  abstract  careless  and  restless 
Life  with  which  you  are  well  acquainted. 
This  sentence  should  it  give  you  any  un- 
easiness do  not  let  it  last  for  before  I  finish 
it  will  be  explained  away  to  your  satisfac- 
tion— 

I  am  grieved  to  say  I  am  not  sorry  you 
had  not  Letters  at  Philadelphia  ;  you  could 
have  had  no  good  news  of  Tom  and  I  have 
been  withheld  on  his  account  from  begin- 
ning these  many  days  ;  I  could  not  bring 
myself  to  say  the  truth,  that  he  is  no  better 
but  much  worse  —  However  it  must  be 


told  ;  and  you  must  my  dear  Brother  and 
Sister  take  example  from  me  and  bear  up 
against  any  Calamity  for  my  sake  as  I  do 
for  yours.  Our's  are  ties  which  independ- 
ent of  their  own  Sentiment  are  sent  us  by 
providence  to  prevent  the  deleterious  effects 
of  one  great  solitary  grief.  I  have  Fanny 
and  I  have  you  —  three  people  whose  Hap- 
piness to  me  is  sacred  —  and  it  does  annul 
that  selfish  sorrow  which  I  should  other- 
wise fall  into,  living  as  I  do  with  poor  Tom 
who  looks  upon  me  as  his  only  comfort  — 
the  tears  will  come  into  your  Eyes  —  let 
them  —  and  embrace  each  other  —  thank 
heaven  for  what  happiness  you  have,  and 
after  thinking  a  moment  or  two  that  you 
suffer  in  common  with  all  Mankind  hold  it 
not  a  sin  to  regain  your  cheerfulness  — 

I  will  relieve  you  of  one  uneasiness  of 
overleaf :  I  returned  I  said  on  account 
of  my  health  —  I  am  now  well  from  a  bad 
sore  throat  which  came  of  bog  trotting  in 
the  Island  of  Mull  —  of  which  you  shall 
hear  by  the  copies  I  shall  make  from  my 
Scotch  Letters  — 

Your  content  in  each  other  is  a  delight  to 
me  which  I  cannot  express  —  the  Moon  is 
now  shining  full  and  brilliant  —  she  is  the 
same  to  me  in  Matter,  what  you  are  to  me 
in  Spirit.  If  you  were  here  my  dear  Sister 
I  could  not  pronounce  the  words  which  I 
can  write  to  you  from  a  distance  :  I  have  a 
tenderness  for  you,  and  an  admiration  which 
I  feel  to  be  as  great  and  more  chaste  than 
I  can  have  for  any  woman  in  the  world. 
You  will  mention  Fanny  —  her  character  is 
not  formed,  her  identity  does  not  press 
upon  me  as  yours  does.  I  hope  from  the 
bottom  of  my  heart  that  I  may  one  day 
feel  as  much  for  her  as  I  do  for  you  —  I 
know  not  how  it  is,  but  I  have  never  made 
any  acquaintance  of  my  own  —  nearly  all 
through  your  medium  my  dear  Brother  — 
through  you  I  know  not  only  a  Sister  but 
a  glorious  human  being.  And  now  I  am 
talking  of  those  to  whom  you  have  made 
me  known  I  cannot  forbear  mentioning 


330 


LETTERS    OF   JOHN    KEATS 


Haslam  as  a  most  kind  and  obliging  and 
constant  friend.  His  behaviour  to  Tom 
during  my  absence  and  since  my  return  has 
endeared  him  to  me  for  ever  —  besides 
his  anxiety  about  you.  To-morrow  I  shall 
call  on  your  Mother  and  exchange  informa- 
tion with  her.  On  Tom's  account  I  have 
not  been  able  to  pass  so  much  time  with 
her  as  I  would  otherwise  have  done  —  I 
have  seen  her  but  twice — once  I  dined 
with  her  and  Charles  —  She  was  well,  in 
good  spirits,  and  I  kept  her  laughing  at  my 
bad  jokes.  We  went  to  tea  at  Mrs.  Mil- 
lar's, and  in  going  were  particularly  struck 
with  the  light  and  shade  through  the  Gate 
way  at  the  Horse  Guards.  I  intend  to 
write  you  such  Volumes  that  it  will  be 
impossible  for  me  to  keep  any  order  or 
method  in  what  I  write  :  that  will  come 
first  which  is  uppermost  in  my  Mind,  not 
that  which  is  uppermost  in  my  heart  —  be- 
sides I  should  wish  to  give  you  a  picture  of 
our  Lives  here  whenever  by  a  touch  I  can 
do  it;  even  as  you  must  see  by  the  last  sen- 
tence our  walk  past  Whitehall  all  in  good 
health  and  spirits  —  this  I  am  certain  of, 
because  I  felt  so  much  pleasure  from  the 
simple  idea  of  your  playing  a  game  at 
Cricket.  At  Mrs.  Millar's  I  saw  Henry 
quite  well  —  there  was  Miss  Keasle  —  and 
the  good-natured  Miss  Waldegrave  —  Mrs. 
Millar  began  a  long  story  and  you  know  it 
is  her  Daughter's  way  to  help  her  on  as 
though  her  tongue  were  ill  of  the  gout. 
Mrs.  M.  certainly  tells  a  story  as  though 
she  had  been  taught  her  Alphabet  in 
Crutched  Friars.  Dilke  has  been  very  un- 
well; I  found  him  very  ailing  on  my  return 
—  he  was  under  Medical  care  for  some 
time,  and  then  went  to  the  Sea  Side  whence 
he  has  returned  well.  Poor  little  Mrs.  D. 
has  had  another  gall-stone  attack;  she  was 
well  ere  I  returned  —  she  is  now  at  Brigh- 
ton. Dilke  was  greatly  pleased  to  hear 
from  you,  and  will  write  a  letter  for  me  to 
enclose  —  He  seems  greatly  desirous  of 
hearing  from  you  of  the  settlement  itself  — 


[October  14  or  15.] 

I  came  by  ship  from  Inverness,  and  was 
nine  days  at  Sea  without  being  sick  —  a 
little  Qualm  now  and  then  put  me  in  mind 
of  you  —  however  as  soon  as  you  touch  the 
shore  all  the  horrors  of  Sickness  are  soon 
forgotten,  as  was  the  case  with  a  Lady  on 
board  who  could  not  hold  her  head  up  all 
the  way.  We  had  not  been  in  the  Thames 
an  hour  before  her  tongue  began  to  some 
tune;  paying  off  as  it  was  fit  she  should 
all  old  scores.  I  was  the  only  Englishman 
on  board.  There  was  a  downright  Scotch- 
man who  hearing  that  there  had  been  a  bad 
crop  of  Potatoes  in  England  had  brought 
some  triumphant  specimens  from  Scotland 
—  these  he  exhibited  with  national  pride  to 
all  the  Lightermen  and  Watermen  from 
the  Nore  to  the  Bridge.  I  fed  upon  beef 
all  the  way;  not  being  able  to  eat  the  thick 
Porridge  which  the  Ladies  managed  to 
manage  with  large  awkward  horn  spoons 
into  the  bargain.  Severn  has  had  a  narrow 
escape  of  his  Life  from  a  Typhus  fever: 
he  is  now  gaining  strength  —  Reynolds  has 
returned  from  a  six  weeks'  enjoyment  in 
Devonshire — he  is  well,  and  persuades  me 
to  publish  my  pot  of  Basil  as  an  answer  to 
the  attacks  made  on  me  in  Blackwood's 
Magazine  and  the  Quarterly  Review.  There 
have  been  two  Letters  in  my  defence  in 
the  Chronicle  and  one  in  the  Examiner, 
copied  from  the  Alfred  Exeter  Paper,  and 
written  by  Reynolds.  I  do  not  know  who 
wrote  those  in  the  Chronicle.  This  is  a 
mere  matter  of  the  moment  —  I  think  I 
shall  be  among  the  English  Poets  after  my 
death.  Even  as  a  Matter  of  present  in- 
terest the  attempt  to  crush  me  in  the  Quar- 
terly has  only  brought  me  more  into  notice, 
and  it  is  a  common  expression  among  book 
men  *  I  wonder  the  Quarterly  should  cut  its 
own  throat.' 

It  does  me  not  the  least  harm  in  Society 
to  make  me  appear  little  and  ridiculous:  I 
know  when  a  man  is  superior  to  me  and 
give  him  all  due  respect  —  he  will  be  the 


TO  GEORGE  AND  GEORGIANA  KEATS 


33* 


last  to  laugh  at  me  and  as  for  the  rest  I  feel 
that  I  make  an  impression  upon  them  which 
insures  me  personal  respect  while  I  am  in 
sight  whatever  they  may  say  when  my 
back  is  turned.  Poor  Haydon's  eyes  will 
not  suffer  him  to  proceed  with  his  picture 

—  he  has  been  in  the  Country  —  I  have 
seen  him  but  once  since  my  return.    I  hurry 
matters   together   here   because  I  do   not 
know  when  the  Mail  sails  —  I  shall  enquire 
to-morrow,  and  then  shall  know  whether  to 
be   particular  or  general   in    my  letter  — 
You  shall  have  at  least  two  sheets  a  day 
till  it  does  sail  whether  it  be  three  days  or 
a  fortnight  —  and  then  I  will  begin  a  fresh 
one  for  the  next  Month.     The  Miss  Rey- 
noldses  are  very  kind  to  me,  but  they  have 
lately  displeased  me  much,  and  in  this  way 

—  Now  I  am  coming  the  Richardson.     On 
my  return  the  first  day  I  called  they  were 
in  a  sort  of  taking  or  bustle  about  a  Cousin 
of  theirs  who  having  fallen  out  with  her 
Grandpapa  in  a  serious  manner  was  invited 
by  Mrs.  R.  to  take  Asylum  in  her  house. 
She  is  an  east  indian  and  ought  to  be  her 
Grandfather's  Heir.     At  the  time  I  called 
Mrs.  R.  was   in   conference    with   her  up 
stairs,  and  the  young  Ladies  were  warm  in 
her  praises  down  stairs,  calling  her  genteel, 
interesting   and    a  thousand    other   pretty 
things  to  which  I  gave  no  heed,  not  being 
partial  to  9  days'  wonders  —  Now   all   is 
completely  changed  — they  hate  her,  and 
from  what  I  hear  she  is  not  without  faults 

—  of  a  real  kind:  but  she  has  others  which 
are  more  apt  to  make  women  of  inferior 
charms  hate  her.     She  is  not  a  Cleopatra, 
but  she  is  at  least  a  Charmian.     She  has  a 
rich  Eastern  look;  she  has   fine  eyes  and 
fine    manners.      When   she   comes   into   a 
room  she  makes  an  impression  the  same  as 
the  Beauty  of  a  Leopardess.  She  is  too  fine 
and  too  conscious  of  herself  to  repulse  any 
Man  who   may  address   her — from  habit 
she  thinks  that  nothing  particular.     I  al- 
ways find  myself  more  at  ease  with  such  a 
woman ;  the  picture  before  me  always  gives 


me  a  life  and  animation  which  I  cannot 
possibly  feel  with  anything  inferior.  I  am 
at  such  times  too  much  occupied  in  admir- 
ing to  be  awkward  or  in  a  tremble.  I  for- 
get myself  entirely  because  I  live  in  her. 
You  will  by  this  time  think  I  am  in  love 
with  her;  so  before  I  go  any  further  I  will 
tell  you  I  am  not  —  she  kept  me  awake  one 
Night  as  a  tune  of  Mozart's  might  do. 
I  speak  of  the  thing  as  a  pastime  and  an 
amusement,  than  which  I  can  feel  none 
deeper  than  a  conversation  with  an  imperial 
woman,  the  very  '  yes '  and  « no '  of  whose 
Lips  is  to  me  a  Banquet.  I  don't  cry  to 
take  the  moon  home  with  me  in  my  Pocket 
nor  do  I  fret  to  leave  her  behind  me.  I 
like  her  and  her  like  because  one  has  no 
sensations  —  what  we  both  are  is  taken  for 
granted.  You  will  suppose  I  have  by  this 
had  much  talk  with  her  —  no  such  thing  — 
there  are  the  Miss  Reynoldses  on  the  look 
out  —  They  think  I  don't  admire  her  be- 
cause I  did  not  stare  at  her. 

They  call  her  a  flirt  to  me  — What  a 
want  of  knowledge !  She  walks  across 
a  room  in  such  a  manner  that  a  Man  is 
drawn  towards  her  with  a  magnetic  Power. 
This  they  call  flirting !  they  do  not  know 
things.  They  do  not  know  what  a  Woman 
is.  I  believe  though  she  has  faults  —  the 
same  as  Charmian  and  Cleopatra  might 
have  had.  Yet  she  is  a  fine  thing  speaking 
in  a  worldly  way :  for  there  are  two  distinct 
tempers  of  mind  in  which  we  judge  of 
things  —  the  worldly,  theatrical  and  panto- 
mimical;  and  the  unearthly,  spiritual  and 
ethereal  —  in  the  former  Buonaparte,  Lord 
Byron  and  this  Charmian  hold  the  first 
place  in  our  Minds;  in  the  latter,  John 
Howard,  Bishop  Hooker  rocking  his  child's 
cradle  and  you  my  dear  Sister  are  the  con- 
quering feelings.  As  a  Man  in  the  world 
I  love  the  rich  talk  of  a  Charmian;  as  an 
eternal  Being  I  love  the  thought  of  you. 
I  should  like  her  to  ruin  me,  and  I  should 
like  you  to  save  me.  Do  not  think,  my 
dear  Brother,  from  this  that  my  Passions 


332 


LETTERS  OF  JOHN   KEATS 


are  headlong,  or  likely  to  be  ever  of  any 
pain  to  you  — 

4 1  am  free  from  Men  of  Pleasure's  cares, 
By  dint  of  feelings  far  more  deep  than  theirs.' 

This  is  Lord  Byron,  and  is  one  of  the  finest 
things  he  has  said.  I  have  no  town  talk 
for  you,  as  I  have  not  been  much  among 
people  —  as  for  Politics  they  are  in  my 
opinion  only  sleepy  because  they  will  soon 
be  too  wide  awake.  Perhaps  not  —  for  the 
long  and  continued  Peace  of  England  itself 
has  given  us  notions  of  personal  safety 
which  are  likely  to  prevent  the  re-establish- 
ment of  our  national  Honesty.  There  is, 
of  a  truth,  nothing  manly  or  sterling  in  any 
part  of  the  Government.  There  are  many 
Madmen  in  the  Country  I  have  no  doubt, 
who  would  like  to  be  beheaded  on  tower 
Hill  merely  for  the  sake  of  e'clat,  there  are 
many  Men  like  Hunt  who  from  a  principle 
of  taste  would  like  to  see  things  go  on 
better,  there  are  many  like  Sir  F.  Burdett 
who  like  to  sit  at  the  head  of  political 
dinners,  —  but  there  are  none  prepared  to 
suffer  in  obscurity  for  their  Country —  The 
motives  of  our  worst  men  are  Interest  and 
of  our  best  Vanity.  We  have  no  Milton, 
no  Algernon  Sidney  —  Governors  in  these 
days  lose  the  title  Of  Man  in  exchange  for 
that  of  Diplomat  and  Minister.  We  breathe 
in  a  sort  of  Officinal  Atmosphere  —  All  the 
departments  of  Government  have  strayed 
far  from  Simplicity  which  is  the  greatest 
of  Strength  there  is  as  much  difference  in 
this  respect  between  the  present  Govern- 
ment and  Oliver  Cromwell's  as  there  is 
between  the  12  Tables  of  Rome  and  the 
volumes  of  Civil  Law  which  were  digested 
by  Justinian.  A  Man  now  entitled  Chan- 
cellor has  the  same  honour  paid  to  him 
whether  he  be  a  Hog  or  a  Lord  Bacon.  No 
sensation  is  created  by  Greatness  but  by  the 
number  of  Orders  a  Man  has  at  his  Button 
holes.  Notwithstanding  the  part  which  the 
Liberals  take  in  the  Cause  of  Napoleon,  I 
cannot  but  think  he  has  done  more  harm 
to  the  life  of  Liberty  than  any  one  else 


could  have  done  :  not  that  the  divine  right 
Gentlemen  have  done  or  intend  to  do  any 
good  —  no  they  have  taken  a  Lesson  of 
him,  and  will  do  all  the  further  harm  he 
would  have  done  without  any  of  the  good. 
The  worst  thing  he  has  done  is,  that  he  has 
taught  them  how  to  organise  their  mon- 
strous armies.  The  Emperor  Alexander  it 
is  said  intends  to  divide  his  Empire  as  did 
Diocletian  —  creating  two  Czars  besides 
himself,  and  continuing  the  supreme  Mon- 
arch of  the  whole.  Should  he  do  this  and 
they  for  a  series  of  Years  keep  peaceable 
among  themselves  Russia  may  spread  her 
conquest  even  to  China  —  I  think  it  a  very 
likely  thing  that  China  itself  may  fall, 
Turkey  certainly  will.  Meanwhile  European 
north  Russia  will  hold  its  horns  against  the 
rest  of  Europe,  intriguing  constantly  with 
France.  Dilke,  whom  you  know  to  be  a 
Godwin  perfectibility  Man,  pleases  himself 
with  the  idea  that  America  will  be  the 
country  to  take  up  the  human  intellect 
where  England  leaves  off  —  I  differ  there 
with  him  greatly  —  A  country  like  the 
United  States,  whose  greatest  Men  are 
Franklins  and  Washingtons  will  never  do 
that.  They  are  great  Men  doubtless,  but 
how  are  they  to  be  compared  to  those  our 
countrymen  Milton  and  the  two  Sidneys  ? 
The  one  is  a  philosophical  Quaker  full  of 
mean  and  thrifty  maxims,  the  other  sold 
the  very  Charger  who  had  taken  him 
through  all  his  Battles.  Those  Americans 
are  great,  but  they  are  not  sublime  Man  — 
the  humanity  of  the  United  States  can 
never  reach  the  sublime.  Birkbeck's  mind 
is  too  much  in  the  American  style  —  you 
must  endeavour  to  infuse  a  little  Spirit  of 
another  sort  into  the  settlement,  always 
with  great  caution,  for  thereby  you  may 
do  your  descendants  more  good  than  you 
may  imagine.  If  I  had  a  prayer  to  make 
for  any  great  good,  next  to  Tom's  recov- 
ery, it  should  be  that  one  of  your  Chil- 
dren should  be  the  first  American  Poet.  I 
have  a  great  mind  to  make  a  prophecy,  and 


TO  GEORGE  AND  GEORGIANA  KEATS 


333 


they  say  prophecies   work   out   their  own 
fulfilment  — 

[Here  are  inserted  the  lines  printed  above,  p. 
249.] 

[October  16.] 

This  is  Friday,  I  know  not  what  day  of 
the  Month  —  I  will  enquire  to-inorrow,  for 
it  is  fit  you  should  know  the  time  I  am 
writing.  I  went  to  Town  yesterday,  and 
calling  at  Mrs.  Millar's  was  told  that  your 
Mother  would  not  be  found  at  home  —  I 
met  Henry  as  I  turned  the  corner  —  I  had 
no  leisure  to  return,  so  I  left  the  letters 
with  him.  He  was  looking  very  well. 
Poor  Tom  is  no  better  to-night  —  I  am 
afraid  to  ask  him  what  Message  I  shall 
send  from  him.  And  here  I  could  go  on 
complaining  of  my  Misery,  but  I  will  keep 
myself  cheerful  for  your  Sakes.  With  a 
great  deal  of  trouble  I  have  succeeded  in 
getting  Fanny  to  Hampstead.  She  has 
been  several  times.  Mr.  Lewis  has  been 
very  kind  to  Tom  all  the  summer,  there 
has  scarce  a  day  passed  but  he  has  visited 
him,  and  not  one  day  without  bringing  or 
sending  some  fruit  of  the  nicest  kind.  He 
has  been  very  assiduous  in  his  enquiries  after 
you  —  It  would  give  the  old  Gentleman  a 
great  deal  of  pleasure  if  you  would  send 
him  a  Sheet  enclosed  in  the  next  parcel  to 
me,  after  you  receive  this  —  how  long  it 
will  be  first  —  Why  did  I  not  write  to 
Philadelphia  ?  Really  I  am  sorry  for  that 
neglect.  I  wish  to  go  on  writing  ad  infi- 
nitum  to  you  —  I  wish  for  interesting 
matter  and  a  pen  as  swift  as  the  wind  — 
But  the  fact  is  I  go  so  little  into  the  Crowd 
now  that  I  have  nothing  fresh  and  fresh 
every  day  to  speculate  upon  except  my  own 
Whims  and  Theories.  I  have  been  but  once 
to  Haydon's,  once  to  Hunt's,  once  to  Rice's, 
once  to  Hessey's.  I  have  not  seen  Taylor,  I 
have  not  been  to  the  Theatre.  Now  if  I  had 
been  many  times  to  all  these  and  was  still 
in  the  habit  of  going  I  could  on  my  return 
at  night  have  each  day  something  new  to 
tell  you  of  without  any  stop  —  But  now  I 
have  such  a  dearth  that  when  I  get  to  the 


end  of  this  sentence  and  to  the  bottom 
of  this  page  I  must  wait  till  I  can  find 
something  interesting  to  you  before  I  begin 
another.  After  all  it  is  not  much  matter 
what  it  may  be  about,  for  the  very  words 
from  such  a  distance  penned  by  this  hand 
will  be  grateful  to  you  —  even  though  I 
were  to  copy  out  the  tale  of  Mother  Hub- 
bard  or  Little  Red  Riding  Hood. 

[Later.] 
I  have  been  over  to  Dilke's  this  evening 

—  there  with   Brown  we  have  been  talk- 
ing of  different  and  indifferent  Matters  — 
of  Euclid,  of  Metaphysics,  of  the  Bible, 
of  Shakspeare,  of  the  horrid  System  and 
consequences    of    the    fagging    at    great 
schools.     I  know  not  yet  how  large  a  par- 
cel I  can  send  —  I  mean  by  way  of  Letters 

—  I  hope  there  can  be  no  objection  to  my 
dowling  up  a  quire  made  into  a  small  com- 
pass.    That  is  the  manner  in  which  I  shall 
write.     I  shall  send  you  more  than  Letters 

—  I  mean  a  tale  — which  I  must  begin  on 
account  of  the  activity  of  my  Mind  ;  of  its 
inability   to  remain  at   rest.     It   must  be 
prose  and  not  very  exciting.     I   must   do 
this  because  in  the  way  I  am  at  present 
situated  I  have  too  many  interruptions  to  a 
train  of  feeling  to  be  able  to  write  Poetry. 
So  I  shall  write  this  Tale,  and  if  I  think  it 
worth  while  get  a  duplicate  made  before  I 
send  it  off  to  you. 

[October  21]. 

This  is  a  fresh  beginning  the  21st 
October.  Charles  and  Henry  were  with 
us  on  Sunday,  and  they  brought  me  your 
Letter  to  your  Mother —  we  agree  to  get  a 
Packet  off  to  you  as  soon  as  possible.  I 
shall  dine  with  your  Mother  to-morrow, 
when  they  have  promised  to  have  their 
Letters  ready.  I  shall  send  as  soon  as 
possible  without^  thinking  of  the  little  you 
may  have  from  me  in  the  first  parcel,  as  I 
intend ;  as  I  said  before,  to  begin  another 
Letter  of  more  regular  information.  Here 
I  want  to  communicate  so  largely  in  a  little 
time  that  I  am  puzzled  where  to  direct  my 


334 


LETTERS   OF   JOHN   KEATS 


attention.  Haslam  has  promised  to  let  me 
know  from  Capper  and  Hazlewood.  For 
want  of  something  better  I  shall  proceed 
to  give  you  some  extracts  from  my  Scotch 
Letters  —  Yet  now  I  think  on  it  why  not 
send  you  the  letters  themselves — I  have 
three  of  them  at  present  —  I  believe  Hay- 
don  has  two  which  I  will  get  in  time.  I 
dined  with  your  Mother  and  Henry  at  Mrs. 
Millar's  on  Thursday,  when  they  gave  me 
their  Letters.  Charles's  I  have  not  yet  — 
he  has  promised  to  send  it.  The  thought 
of  sending  my  Scotch  Letters  has  deter- 
mined me  to  enclose  a  few  more  which  I 
have  received  and  which  will  give  you  the 
best  cue  to  how  I  am  going  on,  better  than 
you  could  otherwise  know.  Your  Mother 
was  well,  and  I  was  sorry  I  could  not  stop 
later.  I  called  on  Hunt  yesterday  —  it  has 
been  always  my  fate  to  meet  Oilier  there 
—  On  Thursday  I  walked  with  Hazlitt  as 
far  as  Covent  Garden:  he  was  going  to  play 
Racquets.  I  think  Tom  has  been  rather  bet- 
ter these  few  last  days  —  he  has  been  less 
nervous.  I  expect  Reynolds  to-morrow. 

[Later,  about  October  25.] 
Since  I  wrote  thus  far  I  have  met  with 
that  same  Lady  again,  whom  I  saw  at 
Hastings  and  whom  I  met  when  we  were 
going  to  the  English  Opera.  It  was  in  a 
street  which  goes  from  Bedford  Row  to 
Lamb's  Conduit  Street.  —  I  passed  her  and 
turned  back  :  she  seemed  glad  of  it  —  glad 
to  see  me,  and  not  offended  at  my  passing 
her  before.  We  walked  on  towards  Isling- 
ton, where  we  called  on  a  friend  of  hers 
who  keeps  a  Boarding  School.  She  has 
always  been  an  enigma  to  me  —  she  has 
been  in  a  Room  with  you  and  Reynolds, 
and  wishes  we  should  be  acquainted  with- 
out any  of  our  common  acquaintance  know- 
ing it.  As  we  went  along,  sometimes 
through  shabby,  sometimes  through  decent 
Streets,  I  had  my  guessing  at  work,  not 
knowing  what  it  would  be,  and  prepared  to 
meet  any  surprise.  First  it  ended  at  this 
House  at  Islington  :  on  parting  from  which 


I  pressed  to  attend  her  home.  She  con- 
sented, and  then  again  my  thoughts  were 
at  work  what  it  might  lead  to,  though  now 
they  had  received  a  sort  of  genteel  hint 
from  the  Boarding  School.  Our  walk  end- 
ed in  34  Gloucester  Street,  Queen  Square 

—  not   exactly  so,  for   we    went   up-stairs 
into  her  sitting-room,  a  very  tasty  sort  of 
place  with  Books,  Pictures,  a  bronze  Statue 
of  Buonaparte,  Music,  «olian  Harp,  a  Par- 
rot, a  Linnet,  a  Case  of  choice  Liqueurs,  etc. 
etc.     She  behaved  in  the  kindest  manner  — 
made  me  take  home  a  grouse  for   Tom's 
dinner.    Asked  for  my  address  for  the  pur- 
pose of  sending  more  game.  ...  I  expect 
to  pass  some  pleasant  hours  with  her  now 
and  then:  in  which  I  feel  I  shall  be  of  ser- 
vice to  her  in  matters  of  knowledge  and 
taste  :  if  I  can  I  will.  .  .  .  She  and  your 
George  are  the  only  women  a  peu  pres  de 
mon  age  whom  I  would  be  content  to  know 
for  their  mind   and    friendship    alone.  — 
I  shall  in  a  short  time  write  you  as  far 
as  I  know  how  I  intend  to  pass  my  Life 

—  I  cannot  think  of  those  things  now  Tom 
is  so  unwell  and  weak.     Notwithstanding 
your  Happiness  and  your  recommendation 
I  hope  I  shall  never  marry.     Though  the 
most  beautiful  Creature  were  waiting  for 
me  at  the  end  of  a  Journey  or  a  Walk  ; 
though  the  Carpet  were  of  Silk,  the  Cur- 
tains of  the  morning   Clouds;    the  chairs 
and  Sofa  stuffed  with  Cygnet's  down  ;  the 
food  Manna,  the  Wine  beyond  Claret,  the 
Window    opening   on   Winander   mere,    I 
should  not  feel  —  or  rather  my  Happiness 
would   not  be  so   fine,  as  my   Solitude   is 
sublime.     Then  instead  of  what  I  have  de- 
scribed, there  is  a  sublimity  to  welcome  me 
home — The   roaring   of   the   wind  is  my 
wife   and  the  Stars   through  the   window 
pane  are  my   Children.     The   mighty  ab- 
stract Idea  I  have  of  Beauty  in  all  things 
stifles  the  more  divided  and  minute  domes- 
tic happiness  —  an  amiable  wife  and  sweet 
Children  I  contemplate  as  a  part  of  that 
Beauty,  but   I   must  have   a   thousand  of 
those  beautiful  particles  to  fill  up  my  heart. 


TO  GEORGE  AND  GEORGIANA  KEATS 


335 


1  feel  more  and  more  every  day,  as  my 
imagination  strengthens,  that  I  do  not  live 
in  this  world  alone  but  in  a  thousand 
worlds  —  No  sooner  am  I  alone  than  shapes 
of  epic  greatness  are  stationed  around  me, 
and  serve  my  Spirit  the  office  which  is 
equivalent  to  a  King's  bodyguard  —  then 
*  Tragedy  with  sceptred  pall  comes  sweep- 
ing by.'  According  to  my  state  of  mind  I 
am  with  Achilles  shouting  in  the  Trenches, 
or  with  Theocritus  in  the  Vales  of  Sicily. 
Or  I  throw  my  whole  being  into  Troilus, 
and  repeating  those  lines,  '  I  wander  like 
a  lost  Soul  upon  the  stygian  Banks  staying 
for  waftage,'  I  melt  into  the  air  with  a 
voluptuousness  so  delicate  that  I  am  con- 
tent to  be  alone.  These  things,  combined 
with  the  opinion  I  have  of  the  generality  of 
women  —  who  appear  to  me  as  children  to 
whom  I  would  rather  give  a  sugar  Plum 
than  my  time,  form  a  barrier  against  Matri- 
mony which  I  rejoice  in. 

I  have  written  this  that  you  might  see  I 
have  my  share  of  the  highest  pleasures, 
and  that  though  I  may  choose  to  pass  my 
days  alone  I  shall  be  no  Solitary.  You  see 
there  is  nothing  spleenical  in  all  this.  The 
only  thing  that  can  ever  affect  me  per- 
sonally for  more  than  one  short  passing 
day,  is  any  doubt  about  my  powers  for 
poetry  —  I  seldom  have  any,  and  I  look 
with  hope  to  the  nighing  time  when  I  shall 
have  none.  I  am  as  happy  as  a  Man  can 
be  —  that  is,  in  myself  I  should  be  happy 
if  Tom  was  well,  and  I  knew  you  were 
passing  pleasant  days.  Then  I  should  be 
most  enviable  —  with  the  yearning  Passion 
I  have  for  the  beautiful,  connected  and 
made  one  with  the  ambition  of  my  intellect. 
Think  of  my  Pleasure  in  Solitude  in  com- 
parison of  my  commerce  with  the  world  — 
there  I  am  a  child  —  there  they  do  not 
know  me,  not  even  my  most  intimate  ac- 
quaintance —  I  give  in  to  their  feelings  as 
though  I  were  refraining  from  irritating  a 
little  child.  Some  think  me  middling,  others 
silly,  others  foolish  —  every  one  thinks  he 
sees  my  weak  side  against  my  will,  when 


in  truth  it  is  with  my  will  —  I  am  content 
to  be  thought  all  this  because  I  have  in 
my  own  breast  so  great  a  resource.  This 
is  one  great  reason  why  they  like  me  so  ; 
because  they  can  all  show  to  advantage  in 
a  room  and  eclipse  from  a  certain  tact  one 
who  is  reckoned  to  be  a  good  Poet.  I 

j  hope  I  am  not  here  playing  tricks  '  to  make 
the  angels  weep  '  :  I  think  not :  for  I  have 

I  not  the  least  contempt  for  my  species, 
and  though  it  may  sound  paradoxical,  my 
greatest  elevations  of  soul  leave  me  every 
time  more  humbled  —  Enough  of  this  — 
though  in  your  Love  for  me  you  will  not 
think  it  enough. 

[Later,  October  29  or  31.] 
Haslam  has  been  here  this  morning  and 
has  taken  all  the  Letters  except  this  sheet, 
which  I  shall  send  him  by  the  Twopenny, 
as  he  will  put  the  Parcel  in  the  Boston 
post  Bag  by  the  advice  of  Capper  and 
Hazlewood,  who  assure  him  of  the  safety 
and  expedition  that  way  —  the  Parcel  will 
be  forwarded  to  Warder  and  thence  to  you 
all  the  same.  There  will  not  be  a  Phila- 
delphia ship  for  these  six  weeks  —  by  that 
time  I  shall  have  another  Letter  to  you. 
Mind  you  I  mark  this  Letter  A.  By  the 
time  you  will  receive  this  you  will  have  I 
trust  passed  through  the  greatest  of  your 
fatigues.  As  it  was  with  your  Sea  Sick- 
ness I  shall  not  hear  of  them  till  they  are 
past.  Do  not  set  to  your  occupation  with 
too  great  an  anxiety  —  take  it  calmly  — 
and  let  your  health  be  the  prime  considera- 
tion. I  hope  you  will  have  a  Son,  and  it 
is  one  of  my  first  wishes  to  have  him  in  my 
Arms  —  which  I  will  do  please  God  before 
he  cuts  one  double  tooth.  Tom  is  rather 
more  easy  than  he  has  been  :  but  is  still  so 
nervous  that  I  cannot  speak  to  him  of  these 
Matters  —  indeed  it  is  the  care  I  have  had 
to  keep  his  Mind  aloof  from  feelings  too 
acute  that  has  made  this  Letter  so  short  a 
one  —  I  did  not  like  to  write  before  him  a 
Letter  he  knew  was  to  reach  your  hands  — 
I  cannot  even  now  ask  him  for  any  Message 


336 


LETTERS   OF  JOHN   KEATS 


—  his  heart  speaks  to  you.  Be  as  happy 
as  you  can.  Think  of  nae,  and  for  my  sake 
be  cheerful. 

Believe  me,  my  dear  Brother  and  sister, 
Your  anxious  and  affectionate  Brother 

JOHN. 

This  day  is  my  Birth  day. 

All  our  friends  have  been  anxious  in 
their  enquiries,  and  all  send  their  re- 
membrances. 

75.      TO  FANNY  KEATS 

Hampstead,  Friday  Mora  [October  16,  1818]. 

MY  DEAR  FANNY  —  You  must  not  con- 
demn me  for  not  being  punctual  to  Thurs- 
day, for  I  really  did  not  know  whether  it 
would  not  affect  poor  Tom  too  much  to  see 
you.  You  know  how  it  hurt  him  to  part 
with  you  the  last  time.  At  all  events  you 
shall  hear  from  me  ;  and  if  Tom  keeps 
pretty  well  to  -  morrow,  I  will  see  Mr. 
Abbey  the  next  day,  and  endeavour  to  set- 
tle that  you  shall  be  with  us  on  Tuesday 
or  Wednesday.  I  have  good  news  from 
George  —  He  has  landed  safely  with  our 
Sister  —  they  are  both  in  good  health  — 
their  prospects  are  good  —  and  they  are  by 
this  time  nighing  to  their  journey's  end  — 
you  shall  hear  the  particulars  soon. 

Your  affectionate  Brother  JOHN. 

Tom's  love  to  you. 

76.      TO  THE   SAME 

[Hampstead,  October  26,  1818.] 
MY  DEAR  FANNY  —  I  called  on  Mr.  Ab- 
bey in  the  beginning  of  last  Week  :  when 
he  seemed  averse  to  letting  you  come  again 
from  having  heard  that  you  had  been  to 
other  places  besides  Well  Walk.  I  do  not 
mean  to  say  you  did  wrongly  in  speaking 
of  it,  for  there  should  rightly  be  no  objec- 
tion to  such  things:  but  you  know  with 
what  People  we  are  obliged  in  the  course 
of  Childhood  to  associate,  whose  conduct 
forces  us  into  duplicity  and  falsehood  to 
them.  To  the  worst  of  People  we  should 


be  openhearted:  but  it  is  as  well  as  things 
are  to  be  prudent  in  making  any  communi- 
cation to  any  one,  that  may  throw  an  im- 
pediment in  the  way  of  any  of  the  little 
pleasures  you  may  have.  I  do  not  recom- 
mend duplicity  but  prudence  with  such 
people.  Perhaps  I  am  talking  too  deeply 
for  you:  if  you  do  not  now,  you  will  under- 
stand what  I  mean  in  the  course  of  a  few 
years.  I  think  poor  Tom  is  a  little  Better: 
he  sends  his  love  to  you.  I  shall  call  on 
Mr.  Abbey  to-morrow  :  when  I  hope  to 
settle  when  to  see  you  again.  Mrs.  Dilke 
has  been  for  some  time  at  Brighton  —  she 
is  expected  home  in  a  day  or  two.  She 
will  be  pleased  I  am  sure  with  your  pre- 
sent. I  will  try  for  permission  for  you  to 
remain  here  all  Night  should  Mrs.  D.  re- 
turn in  time. 

Your  affectionate  Brother     JOHN . 


77.      TO  RICHARD  WOODHOUSE 

[Hampstead,  October  27,  1818.] 
MY  DEAR  WOODHOUSE  —  Your  letter 
gave  me  great  satisfaction,  more  on  ac- 
count of  its  friendliness  than  any  relish  of 
that  matter  in  it  which  is  accounted  so 
acceptable  to  the  'genus  irritabile.'  The 
best  answer  I  can  give  you  is  in  a  clerklike 
manner  to  make  some  observations  on  two 
principal  points  which  seem  to  point  like 
indices  into  the  midst  of  the  whole  pro  and 
con  about  genius,  and  views,  and  achieve- 
ments, and  ambition,  et  csetera. —  1st.  As 
to  the  poetical  Character  itself  (I  mean 
that  sort,  of  which,  if  I  am  anything,  I  am 
a  member ;  that  sort  distinguished  from 
the  Words worthian,  or  egotistical  Sublime ; 
which  is  a  thing  per  se,  and  stands  alone,) 
it  is  not  itself  —  it  has  no  self  —  It  is  every- 
thing and  nothing  —  It  has  no  character  — 
it  enjoys  light  and  shade  ;  it  lives  in  gusto, 
be  it  foul  or  fair,  high  or  low,  rich  or  poor, 
mean  or  elevated  —  It  has  as  much  delight 
in  conceiving  an  lago  as  an  Imogen.  What 
shocks  the  virtuous  philosopher  delights 
the  chameleon  poet.  It  does  no  harm  from 


TO   JAMES   RICE 


337 


its  relish  of  the  dark  side  of  things,  any 
more  than  from  its  taste  for  the  bright  one, 
because  they  both  end  in  speculation.  A 
poet  is  the  most  unpoetical  of  anything  in 
existence,  because  he  has  no  Identity  —  he 
is  continually  in  for  and  filling  some  other 
body.  The  Sun,  —  the  Moon,  —  the  Sea, 
and  men  and  women,  who  are  creatures  of 
impulse,  are  poetical,  and  have  about  them 
an  unchangeable  attribute  ;  the  poet  has 
none,  no  identity  —  he  is  certainly  the  most 
unpoetical  of  all  God's  creatures.  —  If  then 
he  has  no  self,  and  if  I  am  a  poet,  where  is 
the  wonder  that  I  should  say  I  would  write 
no  more?  Might  I  not  at  that  very  instant 
have  been  cogitating  on  the  Characters  of 
Saturn  and  Ops  ?  It  is  a  wretched  thing 
to  confess  ;  but  it  is  a  very  fact,  that  not 
one  word  I  ever  utter  can  be  taken  for 
granted  as  an  opinion  growing  out  of  my 
identical  Nature  —  how  can  it,  when  I 
have  no  Nature  ?  When  I  am  in  a  room 
with  people,  if  I  ever  am  free  from  specu- 
lating on  creations  of  my  own  brain,  then, 
not  myself  goes  home  to  myself,  but  the 
identity  of  every  one  in  the  room  begins  to 
press  upon  me,  so  that  I  am  in  a  very  little 
time  annihilated  —  not  only  among  men;  it 
would  be  the  same  in  a  nursery  of  Children. 
I  know  not  whether  I  make  myself  wholly 
understood  :  I  hope  enough  so  to  let  you 
see  that  no  dependence  is  to  be  placed  on 
what  I  said  that  day. 

In  the  2d  place,  I  will  speak  of  my 
views,  and  of  the  life  I  purpose  to  myself. 
I  am  ambitious  of  doing  the  world  some 
good:  if  I  should  be  spared,  that  may  be 
the  work  of  maturer  years  —  in  the  interval 
I  will  assay  to  reach  to  as  high  a  summit 
in  poetry  as  the  nerve  bestowed  upon  me 
will  suffer.  The  faint  conceptions  I  have 
of  poems  to  come  bring  the  blood  fre- 
quently into  my  forehead  —  All  I  hope  is, 
that  I  may  not  lose  all  interest  in  human 
affairs  —  that  the  solitary  Indifference  I 
feel  for  applause,  even  from  the  finest 
spirits,  will  not  blunt  any  acuteness  of 
vision  I  may  have.  I  do  not  think  it  will. 


I  feel  assured  I  should  write  from  the 
mere  yearning  and  fondness  I  have  for  the 
beautiful,  even  if  my  night's  labours  should 
be  burnt  every  Morning,  and  no  eye  ever 
shine  upon  them.  But  even  now  I  am 
perhaps  not  speaking  from  myself,  but 
from  some  Character  in  whose  soul  I  now 
live. 

I  am  sure  however  that  this  next  sen- 
tence is  from  myself  —  I  feel  your  anxiety, 
good  opinion,  and  friendship,  in  the  highest 
degree,  and  am 

Yours  most  sincerely      JOHN  KEATS. 


78.      TO  FANNY  KEATS 

[Hampstead,  November  5,  1818.] 
MY  DEAR  FANNY  —  I  have  seen  Mr. 
Abbey  three  times  about  you,  and  have  not 
been  able  to  get  his  consent.  He  says  that 
once  more  between  this  and  the  Holidays 
will  be  sufficient.  What  can  I  do  ?  I 
should  have  been  at  Walthamstow  several 
times,  but  I  am  not  able  to  leave  Tom  for 
so  long  a  time  as  that  would  take  me. 
Poor  Tom  has  been  rather  better  these  4 
last  days  in  consequence  of  obtaining  a  lit- 
tle rest  a  nights.  Write  to  me  as  often  as 
you  can,  and  believe  that  I  would  do  any- 
thing to  give  you  any  pleasure  —  we  must 
as  yet  wait  patiently. 

Your  affectionate  Brother     JOHN  . 


79.      TO  JAMES  RICE 

Well  Walk  [Hampstead,]  Novr.  24,  [1818]. 

MY  DEAR  RICE  —  Your  amende  Honor- 
able I  must  call  '  un  surcroit  d'AmitieY 
for  I  am  not  at  all  sensible  of  anything  but 
that  you  were  unfortunately  engaged  and  I 
was  unfortunately  in  a  hurry.  I  completely 
understand  your  feeling  in  this  mistake, 
and  find  in  it  that  balance  of  comfort  which 
remains  after  regretting  your  uneasiness. 
I  have  long  made  up  my  mind  to  take  for 
granted  the  genuine  -  hearteduess  of  my 
friends,  notwithstanding  any  temporary 


338 


LETTERS    OF   JOHN   KEATS 


anibiguousness  in  their  behaviour  or  their 
tongues,  nothing  of  which  however  I  had 
the  least  scent  of  this  morning.  I  say 
completely  understand  ;  for  I  am  everlast- 
ingly getting  my  mind  into  such-like  pain- 
ful trammels  —  and  am  even  at  this  moment 
suffering  under  them  in  the  case  of  a  friend 
of  ours.  —  I  will  tell  you  two  most  unfor- 
tunate and  parallel  slips  —  it  seems  down- 
right pre-intention  —  A  friend  says  to  me, 
*  Keats,  I  shall  go  and  see  Severn  this 
week.'  — '  Ah  !  (says  I)  you  want  him  to 
take  your  Portrait.'  —  And  again,  *  Keats,' 
says  a  friend,  'when  will  you  come  to 
town  again  ?  '  —  'I  will,'  says  I,  *  let  you 
have  the  MS.  next  week.'  In  both  these 
cases  I  appeared  to  attribute  an  interested 
motive  to  each  of  my  friends'  questions  — 
the  first  made  him  flush,  the  second  made 
him  look  angry:  —  and  yet  I  am  innocent 
in  both  cases  ;  my  mind  leapt  over  every 
interval,  to  what  I  saw  was  per  se  a  plea- 
sant subject  with  him.  You  see  I  have  no 
allowances  to  make  —  you  see  how  far  I 
am  from  supposing  you  could  show  me  any 
neglect.  I  very  much  regret  the  long  time 
I  have  been  obliged  to  exile  from  you  :  for 
I  have  one  or  two  rather  pleasant  occasions 
to  confer  upon  with  you.  What  I  have 
heard  from  George  is  favourable — I  ex- 
pect a  letter  from  the  Settlement  itself. 

Your  sincere  friend         JOHN  KEATS. 

I  cannot  give  any  good  news  of  Tom. 

80.      TO  FANNY  KEATS 

[Hampstead.]  Tuesday  Morn 
[December  1,  1818]. 

MY  DEAR  FANNY  —  Poor  Tom  has  been 
so  bad  that  I  have  delayed  your  visit  hither 
—  as  it  would  be  so  painful  to  you  both.  I 
cannot  say  he  is  any  better  this  morning  — 
he  is  in  a  very  dangerous  state — I  have 
scarce  any  hopes  of  him.44  Keep  up  your 
spirits  for  me  my  dear  Fanny  —  repose 
entirely  in 

Your  affectionate  Brother  JOHN. 


81.   TO  GEORGE  AND  GEORGIAN  A  KEATS 

[Hampstead,  about  Decr- 18,  1818.] 
MY  DEAR  BROTHER  AND  SISTER  —  You 
will  have  been  prepared  before  this  reaches 
you  for  the  worst  news  you  could  have, 
nay,  if  Haslam's  letter  arrives  in  proper 
time,  I  have  a  consolation  in  thinking  that 
the  first  shock  will  be  past  before  you  re- 
ceive this.  The  last  days  of  poor  Tom 
were  of  the  most  distressing  nature  ;  but 
his  last  moments  were  not  so  painful,  and 
his  very  last  was  without  a  pang.  I  will 
not  enter  into  any  parsonic  comments  on 
death  —  yet  the  common  observations  of 
the  commonest  people  on  death  are  as  true 
as  their  proverbs.  I  have  scarce  a  doubt 
of  immortality  of  some  nature  or  other  — 
neither  had  Tom.  My  friends  have  been 
exceedingly  kind  to  me  every  one  of  them 

—  Brown   detained  me  at  his   House.     I 
suppose  no  one  could  have  had  their  time 
made  smoother  than  mine  has  been.     Dur- 
ing poor  Tom's  illness  I  was  not  able  to 
write  and  since  his  death  the  task  of  begin- 
ning has  been  a  hindrance  to  me.     Within 
this  last  Week  I  have  been  everywhere  — 
and  I  will   tell  you  as  nearly  as  possible 
how  all  go  on.     With  Dilke  and  Brown  I 
am  quite  thick  —  with  Brown  indeed  I  am 
going  to  domesticate  —  that   is,  we   shall 
keep   house   together.      I   shall   have   the 
front  parlour   and   he   the   back   one,   by 
which  I  shall  avoid  the  noise  of  Bentley's 
Children  —  and  be  the  better  able  to  go  on 
with  my  Studies  —  which  have  been  greatly 
interrupted  lately,  so  that  I  have  not  the 
shadow  of  an  idea  of  a  book  in  my  head, 
and  my  pen  seems  to  have  grown  too  gouty 
for  sense.     How  are  you  going  on  now  ? 
The  goings  on  of  the  world  makes  me  dizzy 

—  There  you  are  with  Birkbeck  —  here  I 
am  with   Brown  —  sometimes  I  fancy  an 
immense  separation,  and  sometimes  as  at 
present,  a  direct  communication  of  Spirit 
with  you.  That  will  be  one  of  the  grandeurs 
of  immortality  —  There  will  be  no  space, 
and   consequently  the  only  commerce  be- 


TO  GEORGE  AND  GEORGIANA  KEATS 


339 


tween  spirits  will  be  by  their  intelligence 
of  each  other  —  when  they  will  completely 
understand  each  other,  while  we  in  this 
world  merely  comprehend  each  other  in 
different  degrees  —  the  higher  the  degree 
of  good  so  higher  is  our  Love  and  friend- 
ship. I  have  been  so  little  used  to  writing 
lately  that  I  am  afraid  you  will  not  smoke 
my  meaning  so  I  will  give  an  example  — 
Suppose  Brown  or  Haslam  or  any  one 
whom  I  understand  in  the  next  degree  to 
what  I  do  you,  were  in  America,  they  would 
be  so  much  the  farther  from  me  in  propor- 
tion as  their  identity  was  less  impressed 
upon  me.  Now  the  reason  why  I  do  not 
feel  at  the  present  moment  so  far  from  you 
is  that  I  remember  your  Ways  and  Man- 
ners and  actions  ;  I  know  your  manner  of 
thinking,  your  manner  of  feeling  :  I  know 
what  shape  your  joy  or  your  sorrow  would 
take ;  I  know  the  manner  of  your  walking, 
standing,  sauntering,  sitting  down,  laugh- 
ing, punning,  and  every  action  so  truly  that 
you  seem  near  to  me.  You  will  remember 
me  in  the  same  manner  —  and  the  more 
when  I  tell  you  that  I  shall  read  a  passage 
of  Shakspeare  every  Sunday  at  ten  o'Clock 
—  you  read  one  at  the  same  time,  and  we 
shall  be  as  near  each  other  as  blind  bodies 
can  be  in  the  same  room. 

I  saw  your  Mother  the  day  before  yes- 
terday, and  intend  now  frequently  to  pass 
half  a  day  with  her  —  she  seem'd  toler- 
ably well.  I  called  in  Henrietta  Street  and 
so  was  speaking  with  your  Mother  about 
Miss  Millar  —  we  had  a  chat  about  Heir- 
esses—  she  told  me  I  think  of  7  or  eight 
dying  Swains.  Charles  was  not  at  home. 
I  think  I  have  heard  a  little  more  talk 
about  Miss  Keasle  —  all  I  know  of  her  is 
she  had  a  new  sort  of  shoe  on  of  bright 
leather  like  our  Knapsacks.  Miss  Millar 
gave  me  one  of  her  confounded  pinches. 
N.  B.  did  not  like  it.  Mrs.  Dilke  went 
with  me  to  see  Fanny  last  week,  and  Has- 
lam went  with  me  last  Sunday.  She  was 
well  —  she  gets  a  little  plumper  and  had  a 
little  Colour.  On  Sunday  I  brought  from 


her  a  present  of  facescreens  and  a  work- 
bag  for  Mrs.  D.  —  they  were  really  very 
pretty.  From  Walthamstow  we  walked  to 
Bethnal  green  —  where  I  felt  so  tired  from 
my  long  walk  that  I  was  obliged  to  go  to 
Bed  at  ten.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Keasle  were 
there.  Haslam  has  been  excessively  kind, 
and  his  anxiety  about  you  is  great ;  I  never 
meet  him  but  we  have  some  chat  thereon. 
He  is  always  doing  me  some  good  turn  — 
he  gave  me  this  thin  paper  ^  for  the  pur- 
pose of  writing  to  you.  I  have  been  pass- 
ing an  hour  this  morning  with  Mr.  Lewis  — 
he  wants  news  of  you  very  much.  Hay  don 
was  here  yesterday  —  he  amused  us  much 
by  speaking  of  young  Hoppner  who  went 
with  Captain  Ross  on  a  voyage  of  discovery 
to  the  Poles.  The  Ship  was  sometimes  en- 
tirely surrounded  with  vast  mountains  and 
crags  of  ice,  and  in  a  few  Minutes  not  a 
particle  was  to  be  seen  all  round  the  Hori- 
zon. Once  they  met  with  so  vast  a  Mass 
that  they  gave  themselves  over  for  lost  ; 
their  last  resource  was  in  meeting  it  with 
the  Bowsprit,  which  they  did,  and  split  it 
asunder  and  glided  through  it  as  it  parted, 
for  a  great  distance  —  one  Mile  and  more. 
Their  eyes  were  so  fatigued  with  the  eter- 
nal dazzle  and  whiteness  that  they  lay  down 
on  their  backs  upon  deck  to  relieve  their 
sight  on  the  blue  sky.  Hoppner  describes  his 
dreadful  weariness  at  the  continual  day  — 
the  sun  ever  moving  in  a  circle  round  above 
their  heads  —  so  pressing  upon  him  that  he 
could  not  rid  himself  of  the  sensation  even 
in  the  dark  Hold  of  the  Ship.  The  Esqui- 
maux are  described  as  the  most  wretched 
of  Beings  —  they  float  from  their  summer 
to  their  winter  residences  and  back  again 
like  white  Bears  on  the  ice  floats.  They 
seem  never  to  have  washed,  and  so  when 
their  features  move  the  red  skin  shows  be- 
neath the  cracking  peel  of  dirt.  They  had 
no  notion  of  any  inhabitants  in  the  World 
but  themselves.  The  sailors  who  had  not 
seen  a  Star  for  some  time,  when  they  came 
again  southwards  on  the  hailing  of  the  first 
revision  of  one,  all  ran  upon  deck  with  feel- 


340 


LETTERS    OF   JOHN    KEATS 


ings  of  the  most  joyful  nature.  Haydon's 
eyes  will  not  suffer  him  to  proceed  with  his 
Picture  —  his  Physician  tells  him  he  must 
remain  two  months  more,  inactive.  Hunt 
keeps  on  in  his  old  way  —  I  am  completely 
tired  of  it  all.  He  has  lately  publish'd  a 
Pocket  Book  called  the  literary  Pocket- 
Book  —  full  of  the  most  sickening  stuff  you 
can  imagine.  Reynolds  is  well;  he  has  be- 
come an  Edinburgh  Reviewer.  I  have  not 
heard  from  Bailey.  Rice  I  have  seen  very 
little  of  lately  —  and  I  am  very  sorry  for  it. 
The  Miss  R's.  are  all  as  usual.  Archer 
above  all  people  called  on  me  one  day  —  he 
wanted  some  information  by  my  means, 
from  Hunt  and  Haydon,  concerning  some 
Man  they  knew.  I  got  him  what  he  wanted, 
but  know  none  of  the  whys  and  wherefores. 
Poor  Kirkman  left  Wentworth  Place  one 
evening  about  half -past  eight  and  was 
stopped,  beaten  and  robbed  of  his  Watch  in 
Pond  Street.  I  saw  him  a  few  days  since; 
he  had  not  recovered  from  his  bruises.  I 
called  on  Hazlitt  the  day  I  went  to  Rom- 
ney  Street. —  I  gave  John  Hunt  extracts 
from  your  letters  —  he  has  taken  no  notice. 
I  have  seen  Lamb  lately —  Brown  and  I 
were  taken  by  Hunt  to  Novello's  —  there 
we  were  devastated  and  excruciated  with 
bad  and  repeated  puns  —  Brown  don't  want 
to  go  again.  We  went  the  other  evening 
to  see  Brutus  a  new  Tragedy  by  Howard 
Payne,  an  American  —  Kean  was  excellent 
—  the  play  was  very  bad.  It  is  the  first 
time  I  have  been  since  I  went  with  you  to 
the  Lyceum. 

Mrs.  Brawne  who   took  Brown's   house 
for  the  Summer,  still  resides  in  Hampstead.  | 
She  is  a  very  nice  woman,  and  her  daughter  j 
senior 46  is  I  think  beautiful  and  elegant,  I 
graceful,   silly,   fashionable    and    strange.  | 
We  have  a  little  tiff  now  and  then  —  and 
she  behaves  a  little  better,  or  I  must  have 
sheered  off.     I  find  by  a  sidelong  report 
from  your  Mother  that  I  am  to  be  invited 
to  Miss  Millar's  birthday  dance.     Shall  I 
dance  with  Miss  Waldegrave  ?    Eh !  I  shall 
be  obliged  to  shirk  a  good  many  there.     I 


shall  be  the  only  Dandy  there  —  and  indeed 
I  merely  comply  with  the  invitation  that 
the  party  may  not  be  entirely  destitute  of 
a  specimen  of  that  race.  I  shall  appear  in 
a  complete  dress  of  purple,  Hat  and  all  — 
with  a  list  of  the  beauties  I  have  conquered 
embroidered  round  my  Calves. 

Thursday  [December  24]. 
This  morning  is  so  very  fine.  I  should 
have  walked  over  to  Walthamstow  if  I  had 
thought  of  it  yesterday.  What  are  you 
doing  this  morning  ?  Have  you  a  clear 
hard  frost  as  we  have  ?  How  do  you  come 
on  with  the  gun  ?  Have  you  shot  a  Buf- 
falo ?  Have  you  met  with  any  Pheasants  ? 
My  Thoughts  are  very  frequently  in  a  for- 
eign Country — I  live  more  out  of  England 
than  in  it.  The  Mountains  of  Tartary  are 
a  favourite  lounge,  if  I  happen  to  miss  the 
Alleghany  ridge,  or  have  no  whim  for 
Savoy.  There  must  be  great  pleasure  in 
pursuing  game  —  pointing  your  gun  —  no, 
it  won't  do  —  now,  no  —  rabbit  it  —  now 
bang  —  smoke  and  feathers  —  where  is  it  ? 
Shall  you  be  able  to  get  a  good  pointer  or 
so  ?  Have  you  seen  Mr.  Trimmer  ?  He 
is  an  acquaintance  of  Peachey's.  Now  I 
am  not  addressing  myself  to  G.  minor,  and 
yet  I  am  —  for  you  are  one.  Have  you 
some  warm  furs  ?  By  your  next  Letters  I 
shall  expect  to  hear  exactly  how  you  go  on 
—  smother  nothing  —  let  us  have  all ;  fair 
and  foul,  all  plain.  Will  the  little  bairn 
have  made  his  entrance  before  you  have 
this  ?  Kiss  it  for  me,  and  when  it  can  first 
know  a  cheese  from  a  Caterpillar  show  it 
my  picture  twice  a  Week.  You  will  be 
glad  to  hear  that  Gifford's  attack  upon  me 
has  done  me  service  —  it  has  got  my  Book 
among  several  sets  —  Nor  must  I  forget  to 
mention  once  more  what  I  suppose  Haslam 
has  told  you,  the  present  of  a  £25  note  I 
had  anonymously  sent  me.  I  have  many 
things  to  tell  you  —  the  best  way  will  be 
to  make  copies  of  my  correspondence ;  and 
I  must  not  forget  the  Sonnet  1  received 
with  the  Note.  Last  Week  I  received  the 


TO  GEORGE  AND  GEORGIANA  KEATS 


following  from  Woodhouse  whom  you  must 
recollect:  — 

'  MY  DEAR  KEATS  —  I  send  enclosed  a  Let- 
ter, which  when  read  take  the  trouble  to  return 
to  me.  The  History  of  its  reaching  me  is  this. 
My  Cousin,  Miss  Frogley  of  Hounslow,  borrowed 
my  copy  of  Endymion  for  a  specified  time.  Be- 
fore she  had  time  to  look  into  it,  she  and  my 
friend  Mr.  Hy.  Neville  of  Esher,  who  was  house 
Surgeon  to  the  late  Princess  Charlotte,  insisted 
upon  having  it  to  read  for  a  day  or  two,  and  un- 
dertook to  make  my  Cousin's  peace  with  me  on 
account  of  the  extra  delay.  Neville  told  me 
that  one  of  the  Misses  Porter  (of  romance  Cele- 
brity) had  seen  it  on  his  table,  dipped  into  it, 
and  expressed  a  wish  to  read  it.  I  desired  he 
should  keep  it  as  long  and  lend  it  to  as  many  as 
he  pleased,  provided  it  was  not  allowed  to  slum- 
ber on  any  one's  shelf.  I  learned  subsequently 
from  Miss  Frogley  that  these  Ladies  had  re- 
quested of  Mr.  Neville,  if  he  was  acquainted 
with  the  Aiithor,  the  Pleasure  of  an  introduc- 
tion. About  a  week  back  the  enclosed  was 
transmitted  by  Mr.  Neville  to  my  Cousin,  as  a 
species  of  Apology  for  keeping  her  so  long  with- 
out the  Book,  and  she  sent  it  to  me,  knowing 
that  it  would  give  me  Pleasure  —  I  forward  it 
to  you  for  somewhat  the  same  reason,  but  prin- 
cipally because  it  gives  me  the  opportunity  of 
naming  to  you  (which  it  would  have  been  fruit- 
less to  do  before)  the  opening  there  is  for  an  in- 
troduction to  a  class  of  society  from  which  you 
may  possibly  derive  advantage,  as  well  as  quali- 
fication, if  you  think  proper  to  avail  yourself  of 
it.  In  such  a  case  I  should  be  very  happy  to 
further  your  Wishes.  But  do  just  as  you  please. 
The  whole  is  entirely  entre  nous.  — 

'  Yours,  etc.,  R.  W.' 

Well  —  now  this  is  Miss  Porter's  Letter 
to  Neville  — 

4  DEAR  SIR  —  As  my  Mother  is  sending  a 
Messenger  to  Esher,  I  cannot  but  make  the 
same  the  bearer  of  my  regrets  for  not  having 
had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  the  morning  you 
called  at  the  gate.  I  had  given  orders  to  be 
denied,  I  was  so  very  unwell  with  my  still  ad- 
hesive cold ;  but  had  I  known  it  was  you  I 
should  have  taken  off  the  interdict  for  a  few 
minutes,  to  say  how  very  much  I  am  delighted 
with  Endymion.  I  had  just  finished  the  Poem 
and  have  done  as  you  permitted,  lent  it  to  Miss 
Fitzgerald.  I  regret  you  are  not  personally 
acquainted  with  the  Author,  for  I  should  have 


been  happy  to  have  acknowledged  to  him, 
through  the  advantage  of  your  communication, 
the  very  rare  delight  my  sister  and  myself  have 
enjoyed  from  the  first  fruits  of  Genius.  I  hope 
the  ill-natured  Review  will  not  have  damaged ' 
(or  damped)  '  such  true  Parnassian  fire  —  it 
ought  not,  for  when  Life  is  granted,  etc.' 

—  and  so  she  goes  on.  Now  I  feel  more 
obliged  than  flattered  by  this  —  so  obliged 
that  I  will  not  at  present  give  you  an  ex- 
travaganza of  a  Lady  Romancer.  I  will  be 
introduced  to  them  if  it  be  merely  for  the 
pleasure  of  writing  to  you  about  it  —  I 
shall  certainly  see  a  new  race  of  People. 
I  shall  more  certainly  have  no  time  for 
them. 

Hunt  has  asked  me  to  meet  Tom  Moore 
some  day  —  so  you  shall  hear  of  him.  The 
Night  we  went  to  Novello's  there  was  a 
complete  set  to  of  Mozart  and  punning.  I 
was  so  completely  tired  of  it  that  if  I  were 
to  follow  my  own  inclinations  I  should 
never  meet  any  one  of  that  set  again,  not 
even  Hunt,  who  is  certainly  a  pleasant  fel- 
low in  the  main  when  you  are  with  him  — 
but  in  reality  he  is  vain,  egotistical,  and 
disgusting  in  matters  of  taste  and  in  morals. 
He  understands  many  a  beautiful  thing; 
but  then,  instead  of  giving  other  minds 
credit  for  the  same  degree  of  perception  as 
he  himself  professes  —  he  begins  an  expla- 
nation in  such  a  curious  manner  that  our 
taste  and  self-love  is  offended  continually. 
Hunt  does  one  harm  by  making  fine 
things  petty,  and  beautiful  things  hateful. 
Through  him  I  am  indifferent  to  Mozart, 
I  care  not  for  white  Busts  —  and  many  a 
glorious  thing  when  associated  with  him 
becomes  a  nothing.  This  distorts  one's 
mind  —  makes  one's  thoughts  bizarre  — 
perplexes  one  in  the  standard  of  Beauty  3 
Martin  is  very  much  irritated  against 
Blackwood  for  printing  some  Letters  in  his 
Magazine  which  were  Martin's  property  — 
he  always  found  excuses  for  Blackwood  till 
he  himself  was  injured,  and  now  he  is  en- 
raged. I  have  been  several  times  thinking- 
whether  or  not  I  should  send  you  the  Ex- 


342 


LETTERS   OF   JOHN    KEATS 


aminers,  as  Birkbeck  no  doubt  has  all  the 
good  periodical  Publications  —  I  will  save 
them  at  all  events.  I  must  not  forget  to 
mention  how  attentive  and  useful  Mrs. 
Bentley  has  been  —  I  am  very  sorry  to 
leave  her  —  but  I  must,  and  I  hope  she  will 
not  be  much  a  loser  by  it.  Bentley  is  very 
well  —  he  has  just  brought  me  a  clothes'- 
basket  of  Books.  Brown  has  gone  to  town 
to-day  to  take  his  Nephews  who  are  on  a 
visit  here  to  see  the  Lions.  I  am  passing 
a  Quiet  day  —  which  I  have  not  done  for  a 
long  while  —  and  if  I  do  continue  so,  I  feel 
I  must  again  begin  with  my  poetry  —  for  if 
I  am  not  in  action  mind  or  Body  I  am  in 
pain  —  and  from  that  I  suffer  greatly  by 
going  into  parties  where  from  the  rules  of 
society  and  a  natural  pride  I  am  obliged  to 
smother  my  Spirit  and  look  like  an  Idiot  — 
because  I  feel  my  impulses  given  way  to 
would  too  much  amaze  them.  I  live  under 
an  everlasting  restraint  —  never  relieved 
•except  when  I  am  composing  —  so  I  will 
write  away. 

Friday  [December  25]. 
I  think  you  knew  before  you  left  Eng- 
land that  my  next  subject  would  be  'the 
fall  of  Hyperion.'  I  went  on  a  little  with 
it  last  night,  but  it  will  take  some  time  to 
get  into  the  vein  again.  I  will  not  give  you 
any  extracts  because  I  wish  the  whole  to 
make  an  impression.  I  have  however  a  few 
Poems  which  you  will  like,  and  I  will  copy 
out  on  the  next  sheet.  I  shall  dine  with 
Haydon  on  Sunday,  and  go  over  to  Wal- 
thams£ow  on  Monday  if  the  frost  hold.  I 
think  also  of  going  into  Hampshire  this 
Christmas  to  Mr.  Snook's  —  they  say  I 
shall  be  very  much  amused  —  But  I  don't 
know  —  I  think  I  am  in  too  huge  a  Mind 
for  study  —  I  must  do  it  —  I  must  wait  at 
home  and  let  those  who  wish  come  to  see 
me.  I  cannot  always  be  (how  do  you  spell 
it  ?)  trapsing.  Here  I  must  tell  you  that  I 
have  not  been  able  to  keep  the  journal  or 
write  the  Tale  I  promised  —  now  I  shall  be 
able  to  do  so.  I  will  write  to  Haslam  this 


morning  to  know  when  the  Packet  sails, 
and  till  it  does  I  will  write  something  every 
day  —  After  that  my  journal  shall  go  on 
like  clockwork,  and  you  must  not  complain 
of  its  dulness  —  for  what  I  wish  is  to  write 
a  quantity  to  you  —  knowing  well  that  dul- 
ness itself  will  from  me  be  interesting  to 
you  —  You  may  conceive  how  this  not  hav- 
ing been  done  has  weighed  upon  me.  I 
shall  be  able  to  judge  from  your  next  what 
sort  of  information  will  be  of  most  service 
or  amusement  to  you.  Perhaps  as  you  were 
fond  of  giving  me  sketches  of  character 
you  may  like  a  little  picnic  of  scandal  even 
across  the  Atlantic.  But  now  I  must  speak 
particularly  to  you,  my  dear  Sister  —  for  I 
know  you  love  a  little  quizzing  better  than 
a  great  bit  of  apple  dumpling.  Do  you 
know  Uncle  Redhall  ?  He  is  a  little  Man 
with  an  innocent  powdered  upright  head, 
he  lisps  with  a  protruded  under  lip  —  he 
has  two  Nieces,  each  one  would  weigh  three 
of  him  —  cine  for  height  and  the  other  for 
breadth  —  he  knew  Bartolozzi.  He  gave  a 
supper,  and  ranged  his  bottles  of  wine  all 
up  the  Kitchen  and  cellar  stairs  —  quite 
ignorant  of  what  might  be  drunk  —  It 
might  have  been  a  good  joke  to  pour  on 
the  sly  bottle  after  bottle  into  a  washing 
tub,  and  roar  for  more — If  you  were  to 
trip  him  up  it  would  discompose  a  Pigtail 
and  bring  his  under  lip  nearer  to  his  nose. 
He  never  had  the  good  luck  to  lose  a  silk 
Handkerchief  in  a  Crowd,  and  therefore 
has  only  one  topic  of  conversation  —  Bar- 
tolozzi. Shall  I  give  you  Miss  Brawne  ? 
She  is  about  my  height  —  with  a  fine  style 
of  countenance  of  the  lengthened  sort  — 
she  wants  sentiment  in  every  feature  — 
she  manages  to  make  her  hair  look  well 
—  her  nostrils  are  fine  —  though  a  little 
painful  —  her  mouth  is  bad  and  good  —  her 
Profile  is  better  than  her  full-face  which 
indeed  is  not  full  but  pale  and  thin  without 
showing  any  bone.  Her  shape  is  very 
graceful  and  so  are  her  movements  —  her 
Arms  are  good  her  hands  baddish  —  her 
feet  tolerable.  She  is  not  seventeen  —  but 


TO  GEORGE  AND  GEORGIANA  KEATS 


343 


she  is  ignorant  —  monstrous  in  her  behav- 
iour, flying  out  in  all  directions  —  calling- 
people  such  names  that  I  was  forced  lately 
to  make  use  of  the  term  Minx  —  this  is  I 
think  not  from  any  innate  vice,  but  from  a 
penchant  she  has  for  acting  stylishly  —  I 
am  however  tired  of  such  style  and  shall 
decline  any  more  of  it.  She  had  a  friend 
to  visit  her  lately  —  you  have  known  plenty 
such  —  her  face  is  raw  as  if  she  was  stand- 
ing out  in  a  frost ;  her  lips  raw  and  seem 
always  ready  for  a  Pullet  —  she  plays  the 
Music  without  one  sensation  but  the  feel  of 
the  ivory  at  her  fingers.  She  is  a  down- 
right Miss  without  one  set  off  —  We  hated 
her  and  smoked  her  arid  baited  her  and  I 
think  drove  her  away.  Miss  B.  thinks  her 
a  Paragon  of  fashion,  and  says  she  is  the 
only  woman  she  would  change  persons  with. 
What  a  stupe  —  She  is  superior  as  a  Rose 
to  a  Dandelion.  When  we  went  to  bed 
Brown  observed  as  he  put  out  the  Taper 
what  a  very  ugly  old  woman  that  Miss 
Robinson  would  make  —  at  which  I  must 
have  groaned  aloud  for  I  'm  sure  ten  min- 
utes. I  have  not  seen  the  thing  Kingston 
again  —  George  will  describe  him  to  you  — 
I  shall  insinuate  some  of  these  Creatures 
into  a  Comedy  some  day  —  and  perhaps 
have  Hunt  among  them  — 

Scene,  a  little  Parlour.  Enter  Hunt  — 
Gattie  —  Hazlitt  —  Mrs.  Novello  —  Oilier. 
Gattie.  Ha !  Hunt,  got  into  your  new 
house  ?  Ha  !  Mrs.  Novello  :  seen  Altam 
and  his  Wife  ?  —  Mrs.  N.  Yes  (with  a 
grin),  it 's  Mr.  Hunt's,  is  n't  it  ?  —  Gattie. 
Hunt's  ?  no,  ha  !  Mr.  Oilier,  I  congratu- 
late you  upon  the  highest  compliment  I 
ever  heard  paid  to  the  Book.  Mr.  Hazlitt, 
I  hope  you  are  well.  —  Hazlitt.  Yes  Sir, 
no  Sir.  —  Mr.  Hunt  (at  the  Music),  *La 
Biondina,'  etc.  Hazlitt  did  you  ever  hear 
this  ?  —  'La  Biondina,'  etc.  —  Hazlitt.  O 
no  Sir  —  I  never.  —  Oilier.  Do,  Hunt,  give 
it  us  over  again  —  divine.  —  Gattie.  Divino 
—  Hunt,  when  does  your  Pocket-Book  come 
out?  —  Hunt.  'What  is  this  absorbs  me 
quite  ? '  O  we  are  spinning  on  a  little,  we 


shall  floridise  soon  I  hope.  Such  a  thing 
was  very  much  wanting  —  people  think  of 
nothing  but  money  getting  —  now  for  me 
I  am  rather  inclined  to  the  liberal  side  of 
things.  I  am  reckoned  lax  in  my  Christian 
principles,  etc.  etc.  etc. 

[December  29.] 

It  is  some  days  since  I  wrote  the  last 
page  —  and  what  I  have  been  about  since 
I  have  no  Idea.  I  dined  at  Haslam's  on 
Sunday  —  with  Haydon  yesterday,  and  saw 
Fanny  in  the  morning  ;  she  was  well.  Just 
now  I  took  out  my  poem  to  go  on  with  it, 
but  the  thought  of  my  writing  so  little  to 
you  came  upon  me  and  I  could  not  get  on  — 
so  I  have  began  at  random  and  I  have  not 
a  word  to  say  —  and  yet  my  thoughts  are 
so  full  of  you  that  I  can  do  nothing  else. 
I  shall  be  confined  at  Hampstead  a  few 
days  on  account  of  a  sore  throat  —  the 
first  thing  I  do  will  be  to  visit  your  Mo- 
ther again.  The  last  time  I  saw  Henry 
he  show'd  me  his  first  engraving,  which  I 
thought  capital.  Mr.  Lewis  called  this 
morning  and  brought  some  American  Pa- 
pers —  I  have  not  look'd  into  them  —  I 
think  we  ought  to  have  heard  of  you  before 
this  —  I  am  in  daily  expectation  of  Letters 
—  Nil  desperandum.  Mrs.  Abbey  wishes 
to  take  Fanny  from  School  —  I  shall  strive 
all  I  can  against  that.  There  has  hap- 
pened a  great  Misfortune  in  the  Drewe 
Family  —  old  Drewe  has  been  dead  some 
time  ;  and  lately  George  Drewe  expired 
in  a  fit  —  on  which  account  Reynolds  has 
gone  into  Devonshire.  He  dined  a  few 
days  since  at  Horace  Twisse's  with  Listen 
and  Charles  Kemble.  I  see  very  little  of 
him  now,  as  I  seldom  go  to  Little  Britain 
because  the  Ennui  always  seizes  me  there, 
and  John  Reynolds  is  very  dull  at  home. 
Nor  have  I  seen  Rice.  How  you  are  now 
going  on  is  a  Mystery  to  me  —  I  hope  a  few 
days  will  clear  it  up. 

[December  30.] 

I  never  know  the  day  of  the  Month.     It 
is  very  fine  here  to-day,  though  I  expect  a 


344 


LETTERS   OF  JOHN   KEATS 


Thundercloud,  or  rather  a  snow  cloud,  in 
less  than  an  hour.  I  am  at  present  alone 
at  Wentworth  Place  —  Brown  being  at 
Chichester  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Dilke  making 
a  little  stay  in  Town.  I  know  not  what  I 
should  do  without  a  sunshiny  morning  now 
and  then  —  it  clears  up  one's  spirits.  Dilke 
and  I  frequently  have  some  chat  about  you. 
I  have  now  and  then  some  doubt,  but  he 
seems  to  have  a  great  confidence.  I  think 
there  will  soon  be  perceptible  a  change  in 
the  fashionable  slang  literature  of  the  day 
—  it  seems  to  me  that  Reviews  have  had  j 
their  day  —  that  the  public  have  been  sur-  j 
f eited  —  there  will  soon  be  some  new  folly 
to  keep  the  Parlours  in  talk  —  What  it  is  I 
care  not.  We  have  seen  three  literary 
Kings  in  our  Time  —  Scott,  Byron,  and 
then  the  Scotch  novels.  All  now  appears 
to  be  dead  —  or  I  may  mistake,  literary 
Bodies  may  still  keep  up  the  Bustle  which 
I  do  not  hear.  Haydon  show'd  me  a  letter 
he  had  received  from  Tripoli  —  Ritchie  was  i 
well  and  in  good  Spirits,  among  Camels,  | 
Turbans,  Palm  Trees,  and  Sands.  You  may  j 
remember  I  promised  to  send  him  an  Endy-  ' 
mion  which  I  did  not  —  however  he  has 
one  —  you  have  one.  One  is  in  the  Wilds 
of  America  —  the  other  is  on  a  Camel's 
back  in  the  plains  of  Egypt.  I  am  looking 
into  a  Book  of  Dubois's  —  he  has  written 
directions  to  the  Players  —  one  of  them  is 
very  good.  'In  singing  never  mind  the 
music  —  observe  what  time  you  please.  It 
would  be  a  pretty  degradation  indeed  if 
you  were  obliged  to  confine  your  genius  to 
the  dull  regularity  of  a  fiddler  —  horse  hair 
and  cat's  guts  —  no,  let  him  keep  your 
time  and  play  your  tune  —  dodge  him.'  I 
will  now  copy  out  the  Letter  and  Sonnet  I 
have  spoken  of.  The  outside  cover  was 
thus  directed, '  Messrs.  Taylor  and  Hessey, 
(Booksellers),  No.  93  Fleet  Street,  Lon- 
don,' and  it  contained  this  : 

'  Messrs.  Taylor  and  Hessey  are  requested  to 
forward  the  enclosed  letter  by  some  safe  mode 
of  conveyance  to  the  Author  of  Endymion,  who 
is  not  known  at  Teignmouth  :  or  if  they  have 


not  his  address,  they  will  return  the  letter 
by  post,  directed  as  below,  within  a  fortnight, 
"Mr.  P.  Fenbank,  P.  0.,  Teignmouth."  9th 
Novr.  1818. 

In  this  sheet  was  enclosed  the  following, 
with  a  superscription  — '  Mr.  John  Keats, 
Teignmouth.'  Then  came  Sonnet  to  John 
Keats  —  which  I  would  not  copy  for  any  in 
the  world  but  you  —  who  know  that  I  scout 
'mild  light  and  loveliness'  or  any  such 
nonsense  in  myself. 

Star  of  high  promise  !  —  not  to  this  dark  age 
Do  thy  mild  light  and  loveliness  belong  ; 
For  it  is  blind,  intolerant,  and  wrong  ; 
Dead  to  empyreal  soarings,  and  the  rage 
Of  scoffing  spirits  bitter  war  doth  wage 
With  all  that  bold  integrity  of  song. 
Yet  thy  clear  beam  shall  shine  through  ages 

strong 

To  ripest  times  a  light  and  heritage. 
And  there  breathe  now  who  dote  upon  thy 

fame, 
Whom  thy  wild  numbers  wrap  beyond  their 

being, 
Who   love   the    freedom   of   thy   lays  —  their 

aim. 

Above  the  scope  of  a  dull  tribe  unseeing  — 
And  there  is  one  whose  hand  will  never  scant 
From  his  poor  store  of  fruits  all  thou  canst 

want. 
November  1818.  turn  over 

I  turn'd  over  and  found  a  £25  note. 
Now  this  appears  to  me  all  very  proper  — 
if  I  had  refused  it  I  should  have  behaved 
in  a  very  bragadochio  dunderheaded  man- 
ner —  and  yet  the  present  galls  me  a  little, 
and  I  do  not  know  whether  I  shall  not  re- 
turn it  if  I  ever  meet  with  the  donor  after, 
whom  to  no  purpose  I  have  written.  1 
have  your  Miniature  on  the  Table  George 
the  great  —  it 's  very  like  —  though  not 
quite  about  the  upper  lip.  I  wish  we  had 
a  better  of  your  little  George.  I  must  not 
forget  to  tell  you  that  a  few  days  since  I 
went  with  Dilke  a  shooting  on  the  heath 
and  shot  a  Tomtit.  There  were  as  many 
guns  abroad  as  Birds.  I  intended  to  have 
been  at  Chichester  this  Wednesday  —  but 
on  account  of  this  sore  throat  I  wrote  him 
(Brown)  my  excuse  yesterday. 


TO  GEORGE  AND  GEORGIANA  KEATS 


345 


Thursday  [December  31]. 
(I  will  date  when  I  finish.)  —  I  re- 
ceived a  Note  from  Haslam  yesterday  — 
asking  if  my  letter  is  ready  —  now  this  is 
only  the  second  sheet  —  notwithstanding  all 
iny  promises.  But  you  must  reflect  what 
hindrances  I  have  had.  However  on  seal- 
ing this  I  shall  have  nothing  to  prevent  my 
proceeding  in  a  gradual  journal,  which  will 
increase  in  a  Month  to  a  considerable  size. 
I  will  insert  any  little  pieces  I  may  write  — 
though  I  will  not  give  any  extracts  from 
my  large  poem  which  is  scarce  began.  I 
want  to  hear  very  much  whether  Poetry 
and  literature  in  general  has  gained  or  lost 
interest  with  you  —  and  what  sort  of  writ- 
ing is  of  the  highest  gust  with  you  now. 
With  what  sensation  do  you  read  Fielding  ? 

—  and  do  not  Hogarth's  pictures  seem  an 
old  thing  to  you  ?     Yet  you  are  very  little 
more    removed   from   general    association 
than  I  am  —  recollect  that  no  Man  can  live 
but  in  one  society  at  a  time  —  his  enjoy- 
ment   in   the    different    states    of   human 
society  must  depend  upon  the  Powers  of 
his   Mind  —  that   is   you    can    imagine    a 
Roman  triumph  or  an  Olympic  game  as 
well  as  I  can.     We  with  our  bodily  eyes 
see  but  the  fashion  and  Manners  of  one 
country  for  one   age  —  and  then  we  die. 
Now   to    me   manners   and   customs   long 
since  passed  whether  among  the  Babylo- 
nians or  the  Bactrians  are  as  real,  or  even 
more  real  than  those  among  which  I  now 
live  —  My  thoughts  have  turned  lately  this 
way  —  The   more   we  know  the  more  in- 
adequacy we  find  in  the  world  to  satisfy  us  ! 

—  this  is  an  old  observation  ;  but  I  have 
made  up  my  Mind  never  to  take  anything 
for   granted  —  but   even    to   examine   the 
truth  of  the  commonest   proverbs  —  This 
however  is  true.     Mrs.  Tighe  and  Beattie 
once  delighted   me  —  now  I   see  through 
them   and   can  find  nothing  in   them   but 
weakness,  and  yet  how  many  they  still  de- 
light !     Perhaps  a  superior  being  may  look 
upon  Shakspeare  in  the  same  light  —  is  it 
possible  ?  No  —  This   same  inadequacy  is 


discovered  (forgive  me,  little  George,  you 
know  I  don't  mean  to  put  you  in  the  mess) 
in  Women  with  few  exceptions  —  the  Dress 
Maker,  the  blue  Stocking,  and  the  most 
charming  sentimentalist  differ  but  in  a 
slight  degree  and  are  equally  smokeable. 
But  I  will  go  no  further  —  I  may  be  speak- 
ing sacrilegiously — and  on  my  word  I 
have  thought  so  little  that  I  have  not  one 
opinion  upon  anything  except  in  matters 
of  taste  —  I  never  can  feel  certain  of  any 
truth  but  from  a  clear  perception  of  its 
Beauty  —  and  I  find  myself  very  young 
minded  even  in  that  perceptive  power  — 
which  I  hope  will  increase.  A  year  ago  I 
could  not  understand  in  the  slightest  de- 
gree Raphael's  cartoons  —  now  I  begin  to 
read  them  a  little  —  And  how  did  I  learn 
to  do  so  ?  By  seeing  something  done  in 
quite  an  opposite  spirit  —  I  mean  a  picture 
of  Guide's  in  which  all  the  Saints,  instead 
of  that  heroic  simplicity  and  unaffected 
grandeur  which  they  inherit  from  Raphael, 
had  each  of  them  both  in  countenance  and 
gesture  all  the  canting,  solemn,  melodra- 
matic mawkishness  of  Mackenzie's  father 
Nicholas.  When  I  was  last  at  Haydon's  I 
looked  over  a  Book  of  Prints  taken  from 
the  fresco  of  the  Church  at  Milan,  the 
name  of  which  I  forget  —  in  it  are  com- 
prised Specimens  of  the  first  and  second 
age  of  art  in  Italy.  I  do  not  think  I  ever 
had  a  greater  treat  out  of  Shakspeare. 
Full  of  Romance  and  the  most  tender  feel- 
ing —  magnificence  of  draperies  beyond 
any  I  ever  saw,  not  excepting  Raphael's. 
But  Grotesque  to  a  curious  pitch  —  yet 
still  making  up  a  fine  whole  —  even  finer 
to  me  than  more  accomplish'd  works  —  as 
there  was  left  so  much  room  for  Imagina- 
tion. I  have  not  heard  one  of  this  last 
course  of  Hazlitt's  lectures.  They  were 
upon  'Wit  and  Humour,'  'the  English 
comic  writers.' 

Saturday,  Jan*-  2nd  [1819]. 
Yesterday  Mr.  and  Mrs.  D.  and  myself 
dined  at  Mrs.  Brawne's  —  nothing  particu- 
lar  passed.     I  never  intend  hereafter  to 


346 


LETTERS   OF   JOHN   KEATS 


spend  any  time  with  Ladies  unless  they  are 
handsome  —  you  lose  time  to  no  purpose. 
For  that  reason  I  shall  beg  leave  to  decline 
going  again  to  RedalFs  or  Butler's  or  any 
Squad  where  a  fine  feature  cannot  be  mus- 
tered among  them  all  —  and  where  all  the 
evening's  amusement  consists  in  saying 
'your  good  health,  your  good  health,  and 
YOUR  good  health  —  and  (O  I  beg  your 

pardon)  yours,  Miss ,'  and  such  thing 

not  even  dull  enough  to  keep  one  awake  — 
With  respect  to  amiable  speaking  I  can 
read  —  let  my  eyes  be  fed  or  I  '11  never  go 
out  to  dinner  anywhere.  Perhaps  you  may 
have  heard  of  the  dinner  given  to  Thos. 
Moore  in  Dublin,  because  I  have  the  ac- 
count here  by  me  in  the  Philadelphia  dem- 
ocratic paper.  The  most  pleasant  thing 
that  occurred  was  the  speech  Mr.  Tom  made 
on  his  Father's  health  being  drank.  I  am 
afraid  a  great  part  of  my  Letters  are  filled 
up  with  promises  and  what  I  will  do  rather 
than  any  great  deal  written  —  but  here  I 
say  once  for  all  —  that  circumstances  pre- 
vented me  from  keeping  my  promise  in  my 
last,  but  now  I  affirm  that  as  there  will  be 
nothing  to  hinder  me  I  will  keep  a  journal 
for  you.  That  I  have  not  yet  done  so  you 
would  forgive  if  you  knew  how  many  hours 
I  have  been  repenting  of  my  neglect.  For 
I  have  no  thought  pervading  me  so  con- 
stantly and  frequently  as  that  of  you  —  my 
Poem  cannot  frequently  drive  it  away  — 
you  will  retard  it  much  more  than  you 
could  by  taking  up  my  time  if  you  were  in 
England.  I  never  forget  you  except  after 
seeing  now  and  then  some  beautiful  woman 
—  but  that  is  a  fever  —  the  thought  of  you 
both  is  a  passion  with  me,  but  for  the  most 
part  a  calm  one.  I  asked  Dilke  for  a  few 
lines  for  you  —  he  has  promised  them  —  I 
shall  send  what  I  have  written  to  Haslam 
on  Monday  Morning  —  what  I  can  get  into 
another  sheet  to-morrow  I  will  —  There 
are  one  or  two  little  poems  you  might  like. 
I  have  given  up  snuff  very  nearly  quite  — 
Dilke  has  promised  to  sit  with  me  this 
evening,  I  wish  he  would  come  this  minute 


for  I  want  a  pinch  of  snuff  very  much  just 
now  —  I  have  none  though  in  my  own  snuff 
box.  My  sore  throat  is  much  better  to-day 

—  I  think  I  might   venture   on  a  pinch. 
Here  are  the  Poems — they  will   explain 
themselves  —  as  all  poems  should  do  with- 
out any  comment  — 

[The  poem  entitled  '  Fancy,'  pp.  124, 125,  is 
here  inserted.] 

I  did  not  think  this  had  been  so  long  a 
Poem.  I  have  another  not  so  long  —  but 
as  it  will  more  conveniently  be  copied  on 
the  other  side  I  will  just  put  down  here 
some  observations  on  Caleb  Williams  by 
Hazlitt  —  I  meant  to  say  St.  Leon,  for  al- 
though he  has  mentioned  all  the  Novels  of 
Godwin  very  freely  I  do  not  quote  them, 
but  this  only  on  account  of  its  being  a 
specimen  of  his  usual  abrupt  manner,  and 
fiery  laconicism.  He  says  of  St.  Leon  — 

'  He  is  a  limb  torn  off  society.  In  possession 
of  eternal  youth  and  beauty  he  can  feel  no  love; 
surrounded,  tantalised,  and  tormented  with 
riches,  he  can  do  no  good.  The  faces  of  Men 
pass  before  him  as  in  a  speculum  ;  but  he  is  at- 
tached to  them  by  no  common  tie  of  sympathy 
or  suffering.  He  is  thrown  back  into  himself 
and  his  own  thoughts.  He  lives  in  the  solitude 
of  his  own  breast  —  without  wife  or  child  or 
friend  or  Enemy  in  the  world.  This  is  the  soli- 
tude of  the  soul,  not  of  woods  or  trees  or  mountains 

—  but  the  desert  of  society  —  the  waste  and  ob- 
livion of  the  heart.     He  is  himself  alone.     His 
existence  is  purely  intellectual,  and  is  therefore 
intolerable  to  one  who  has  felt  the  rapture  of 
affection,  or  the  anguish  of  woe.' 

As  I  am  about  it  I  might  as  well  give  you 
his  character  of  Godwin  as  a  Romancer:  — 

'  Whoever  else  is,  it  is  pretty  clear  that  the 
author  of  Caleb  Williams  is  not  the  author  of 
Waverley.  Nothing  can  be  more  distinct  or  ex- 
cellent in  their  several  ways  than  these  two 
writers.  If  the  one  owes  almost  everything  to 
external  observations  and  traditional  character, 
the  other  owes  everything  to  internal  concep- 
tion and  contemplation  of  the  possible  workings 
of  the  human  Mind.  There  is  little  knowledge 
of  the  world,  little  variety,  neither  an  eye  for 
the  picturesque  nor  a  talent  for  the  humorous 


TO  GEORGE  AND  GEORGIANA  KEATS 


347 


in  Caleb  Williams,  for  instance,  but  you  cannot 
doubt  for  a  moment  of  the  originality  of  the 
work  and  the  force  of  the  conception.  The  im- 
pression made  upon  the  reader  is  the  exact 
measure  of  the  strength  of  the  author's  genius. 
For  the  effect  both  in  Caleb  Williams  and  St. 
Leon  is  entirely  made  out,  not  by  facts  nor 
dates,  by  blackletter,  or  magazine  learning,  by 
transcript  nor  record,  but  by  intense  and  pa- 
tient study  of  the  human  heart,  and  by  an  im- 
agination projecting  itself  into  certain  situations, 
and  capable  of  working  up  its  imaginary  feel- 
ings to  the  height  of  reality.' 

This  appears  to  me  quite  correct  —  Now  I 
will  copy  the  other  Poem  —  it  is  on  the 
double  immortality  of  Poets  — 

['  Bards  of  Passion  and  of  Mirth,'  p.  125]. 

These  are  specimens  of  a  sort  of  rondeau 
which  I  think  I  shall  become  partial  to  — 
because  you  have  one  idea  amplified  with 
greater  ease  and  more  delight  and  freedom 
than  in  the  sonnet.  It  is  my  intention  to 
wait  a  few  years  before  I  publish  any 
minor  poems  —  and  then  I  hope  to  have  a 
volume  of  some  worth  —  and  which  those 
people  will  relish  who  cannot  bear  the 
burthen  of  a  long  poem.  In  my  journal  I 
intend  to  copy  the  poems  I  write  the  days 
they  are  written  —  There  is  just  room,  I 
see,  in  this  page  to  copy  a  little  thing  I 
wrote  off  to  some  Music  as  it  was  playing  — 

['I  had  a  dove  and  the  sweet  dove  died,'  p. 
125]. 

Sunday  [January  3]. 

I  have  been  dining  with  Dilke  to-day  — 
He  is  up  to  his  Ears  in  Walpole's  letters. 
Mr.  Manker  is  there,  and  I  have  come 
round  to  see  if  I  can  conjure  up  anything 
for  you.  Kirkman  came  down  to  see  me 
this  morning  —  his  family  has  been  very 
badly  off  lately.  He  told  me  of  a  villain- 
ous trick  of  his  Uncle  William  in  Newgate 
Street,  who  became  sole  Creditor  to  his 
father  under  pretence  of  serving  him,  and 
put  an  execution  on  his  own  Sister's  goods. 
He  went  in  to  the  family  at  Portsmouth  ; 
conversed  with  them,  went  out  and  sent  in 
the  Sherriff's  officer.  He  tells  me  too  of 


abominable  behaviour  of  Archer  to  Caro- 
line Mathew  —  Archer  has  lived  nearly  at 
the  Mathews  these  two  years  ;  he  has  been 
amusing  Caroline  —  and  now  he  has  written 
a  Letter  to  Mrs.  M.  declining,  on  pretence 
of  inability  to  support  a  wife  as  he  would 
wish,  all  thoughts  of  marriage.     What  is 
the  worst  is  Caroline  is  27  years  old.    It  is 
an  abominable  matter.   He  has  called  upon 
me  twice  lately  —  I  was  out  both  times. 
What  can  it  be  for  ?  —  There  is  a  letter 
to-day  in  the  Examiner  to  the  Electors  of 
Westminster  on  Mr.  Hobhouse's  account. 
In  it  there  is  a  good  character  of  Cobbett 
—  I  have  not  the  paper  by  me  or  I  would 
copy  it.     I  do  not  think  I  have  mentioned 
the  discovery  of  an  African  Kingdom — 
the  account  is  much  the  same  as  the  first 
accounts  of  Mexico  —  all  magnificence  — 
There  is  a  Book  being  written  about  it.     I 
i  will  read  it  and  give  you  the  cream  in  my 
;  next.     The  romance  we  have  heard  upon  it 
runs  thus :     They  have  window  frames  of 
gold — 100,000  infantry — human  sacrifices. 
The  Gentleman  who  is  the  Adventurer  has 
!  his  wife  with  him  —  she,  I  am  told,  is  a 
!  beautiful  little  sylphid  woman  —  her  hus- 
band was  to  have  been  sacrificed  to  their 
i  Gods  and  was  led  through  a  Chamber  filled 
|  with  different  instruments  of  torture  with 
|  privilege  to  choose  what  death  he  would 
die,  without  their  having  a  thought  of  his 
aversion  to  such  a  death,  they  considering 
i  it  a  supreme  distinction.     However  he  was 
let  off,  and  became  a  favourite  with  the 
King,  who  at  last  openly  patronised  him, 
though  at  first  on  account  of  the  Jealousy 
of  his  Ministers  he  was  wont  to  hold  con- 
I  versations  with   his   Majesty  in   the  dark 
middle  of  the  night.     All   this  sounds  a 
little  Bluebeardish  —  but  I  hope  it  is  true. 
I  There  is  another  thing  I  must  mention  of 
the  momentous  kind;  —  but  I  must  mind 
|  my  periods  in  it  —  Mrs.  Dilke  has  two  Cats 
!  — a   Mother   and  a  Daughter  —  now  the 
i  Mother  is  a  tabby  and  the  daughter  a  black 
and  white  like  the  spotted  child.     Now  it 
j  appears  to  me,  for  the  doors  of  both  houses 


348 


LETTERS    OF  JOHN    KEATS 


are  opened  frequently,  so  that  there  is  a 
complete  thoroughfare  for  both  Cats  (there 
being  no  board  up  to  the  contrary),  they 
may  one  and  several  of  them  come  into  my 
room  ad  libitum.  But  no  —  the  Tabby 
only  comes  —  whether  from  sympathy  for 
Ann  the  Maid  or  me  I  cannot  tell  —  or 
whether  Brown  has  left  behind  him  any 
atmospheric  spirit  of  Maidenhood  I  cannot 
tell.  The  Cat  is  not  an  old  Maid  her- 
self —  her  daughter  is  a  proof  of  it  —  I 
have  questioned  her  —  I  have  look'd  at  the 
lines  of  her  paw  —  I  have  felt  her  pulse  — 
to  no  purpose.  Why  should  the  old  Cat 
come  to  me  ?  I  ask  myself  —  and  myself 
has  not  a  word  to  answer.  It  may  come  to 
light  some  day  ;  if  it  does  you  shall  hear 
of  it. 

Kirkman  this  morning  promised  to  write 
a  few  lines  to  you  and  send  them  to  Has- 
lam.  1  do  not  think  I  have  anything  to 
say  in  the  Business  way.  You  will  let  me 
know  what  you  would  wish  done  with  your 
property  in  England  —  what  things  you 
would  wish  sent  out  —  But  I  am  quite  in 
the  dark  about  what  you  are  doing  —  If  I 
do  not  hear  soon  I  shall  put  on  my  wings 
and  be  after  you.  I  will  in  my  next,  and 
after  I  have  seen  your  next  letter,  tell  you 
my  own  particular  idea  of  America.  Your 
next  letter  will  be  the  key  by  which  I  shall 
open  your  hearts  and  see  what  spaces  want 
filling  with  any  particular  information  — 
Whether  the  affairs  of  Europe  are  more 
or  less  interesting  to  you  —  whether  you 
would  like  to  hear  of  the  Theatres  —  of 
the  bear  Garden  —  of  the  Boxers  —  the 
Painters,  the  Lectures  —  the  Dress  —  The 
progress  of  Dandyism — The  Progress  of 
Courtship  —  or  the  fate  of  Mary  Millar  — 
being  a  full,  true,  and  tres  particular  ac- 
count of  Miss  M.'s  ten  Suitors  —  How  the 
first  tried  the  effect  of  swearing;  the  second 
of  stammering;  the  third  of  whispering;  — 
the  fourth  of  sonnets  —  the  fifth  of  Spanish 
leather  boots,  —  the  sixth  of  flattering  her 
body  —  the  seventh  of  flattering  her  mind 
—  the  eighth  of  flattering  himself  —  the 


ninth  stuck  to  the  Mother  —  the  tenth 
kissed  the  Chambermaid  and  told  her  to 
tell  her  Mistress  —  But  he  was  soon  dis- 
charged, his  reading  led  him  into  an  error; 
he  could  not  sport  the  Sir  Lucius  to  any 
advantage.  And  now  for  this  time  I  bid 
you  good-bye  —  I  have  been  thinking  of 
these  sheets  so  long  that  I  appear  in  closing 
them  to  take  my  leave  of  you  —  but  that  is 
not  it  —  I  shall  immediately  as  I  send  this 
off  begin  my  journal  —  when  some  days  I 
shall  write  no  more  than  10  lines  and 
others  10  times  as  much.  Mrs.  Dilke  is 
knocking  at  the  wall  for  Tea  is  ready  —  I 
will  tell  you  what  sort  of  a  tea  it  is  and 
then  bid  you  Good-bye. 

[January  4]. 

This  is  Monday  morning  —  nothing  par- 
ticular happened  yesterday  evening,  except 
that  when  the  tray  came  up  Mrs.  Dilke  and 
I  had  a  battle  with  celery  stalks  —  she 
sends  her  love  to  you.  I  shall  close  this 
and  send  it  immediately  to  Haslam  — 
remaining  ever,  My  dearest  brother  and 
sister, 

Your  most  affectionate  Brother  JOHN. 


82.      TO  RICHARD  WOODHOUSE 

Wentworth  Place,  Friday  Morn 
[December  18,  1818]. 

MY  DEAR  WOODHOUSE  —  I  am  greatly 
obliged  to  you.  I  must  needs  feel  flattered 
by  making  an  impression  on  a  set  of  ladies. 
I  should  be  content  to  do  so  by  mere- 
tricious romance  verse,  if  they  alone,  and 
not  men,  were  to  judge.  I  should  like 
very  much  to  know  those  ladies  —  though 
look  here,  Woodhouse  —  I  have  a  new  leaf 
to  turn  over:  I  must  work;  I  must  read;  I 
must  write.  I  am  unable  to  afford  time 
for  new  acquaintances.  I  am  scarcely  able 
to  do  my  duty  to  those  I  have.  Leave  the 
matter  to  chance.  But  do  not  forget  to 
give  my  remembrances  to  your  cousin. 

Yours  most  sincerely       JOHN  KEATS. 


TO   BENJAMIN    ROBERT   HAYDON 


349 


83.      TO  MRS.  REYNOLDS 

Wentworth  Place,  Tuesd. 
[December  22, 1818]. 

MY  DEAR  MRS.  REYNOLDS  —  When  I 
left  you  yesterday,  't  was  with  the  convic- 
tion that  you  thought  I  had  received  no 
previous  invitation  for  Christmas  day  :  the 
truth  is  I  had,  and  had  accepted  it  under 
the  conviction  that  I  should  be  in  Hamp- 
shire at  the  time:  else  believe  me  I  should 
not  have  done  so,  but  kept  in  Mind  my  old 
friends.  I  will  not  speak  of  the  propor- 
tion of  pleasure  I  may  receive  at  different 
Houses  —  that  never  enters  my  head  — 
you  may  take  for  a  truth  that  I  would  have 
given  up  even  what  I  did  see  to  be  a 
greater  pleasure,  for  the  sake  of  old  ac- 
quaintanceship —  time  is  nothing  —  two 
years  are  as  long  as  twenty. 

Yours  faithfully  JOHN  KEATS. 

84.      TO  BENJAMIN  ROBERT  HAYDON 

Wentworth  Place,  Tuesday 
[December  22, 1818]. 

MY  DEAR  HAYDON  —  Upon  my  Soul  I 
never  felt  your  going  out  of  the  room  at 
all  —  and  believe  me  I  never  rhodomon- 
tade  anywhere  but  in  your  Company  —  my 
general  Life  in  Society  is  silence.  I  feel 
in  myself  all  the  vices  of  a  Poet,  irritabil- 
ity, love  of  effect  and  admiration  —  and 
influenced  by  such  devils  I  may  at  times 
say  more  ridiculous  things  than  I  am  aware 
of  —  but  I  will  put  a  stop  to  that  in  a  man- 
ner I  have  long  resolved  upon  —  I  will  buv 
a  gold  ring  and  put  it  on  my  finger  —  and 
from  that  time  a  Man  of  superior  head 
shall  never  have  occasion  to  pity  me,  or 
one  of  inferior  Nunskull  to  chuckle  at  me. 
I  am  certainly  more  for  greatness  in  a 
shade  than  in  the  open  day  —  I  am  speak- 
ing as  a  mortal  —  I  should  say  I  value 
more  the  privilege  of  seeing  great  things  in 
loneliness  than  the  fame  of  a  Prophet.  Yet 
here  I  am  sinning  —  so  I  will  turn  to  a 
thing  I  have  thought  on  more  —  I  mean 
your  means  till  your  picture  be  finished: 


not  only  now  but  for  this  year  and  half 
have  I  thought  of  it.  Believe  me  Haydon 
I  have  that  sort  of  fire  in  my  heart  that 
would  sacrifice  everything  I  have  to  your 
service  —  I  speak  without  any  reserve  —  I 
know  you  would  do  so  for  me  —  I  open  my 
heart  to  you  in  a  few  words.  I  will  do  this 
sooner  than  you  shall  be  distressed:  but  let 
me  be  the  last  stay  —  Ask  the  rich  lovers 
of  Art  first  —  I  'II  tell  you  why  —  I  have  a 
little  money  which  may  enable  me  to  study, 
and  to  travel  for  three  or  four  years.  I 
never  expect  to  get  anything  by  my  Books: 
and  moreover  I  wish  to  avoid  publishing  — 
I  admire  Human  Nature  but  I  do  not  like 
Men.  I  should  like  to  compose  things 
honourable  to  Man  —  but  not  fingerable  over 
by  Men.  So  I  am  anxious  to  exist  without 
troubling  the  printer's  devil  or  drawing 
upon  Men's  or  Women's  admiration  — in 
which  great  solitude  I  hope  God  will  give 
me  strength  to  rejoice.  Try  the  long 
purses  —  but  do  not  sell  your  drawings  or 
I  shall  consider  it  a  breach  of  friendship. 
I  am  sorry  I  was  not  at  home  when  Salmon 
[Haydon's  servant]  called.  Do  write  and 
let  me  know  all  your  present  whys  and 
wherefores. 
Yours  most  faithfully  JOHN  KEATS. 

85.      TO  JOHN  TAYLOR 

Wentworth  Place,  [December  24,  1818]. 

MY  DEAR  TAYLOR  —  Can  you  lend  me 
£30  for  a  short  time  ?  Ten  I  want  for  my- 
self —  and  twenty  for  a  friend  —  which  will 
be  repaid  me  by  the  middle  of  next  month. 
I  shall  go  to  Chichester  on  Wednesday  and 
perhaps  stay  a  fortnight  —  I  am  afraid  I 
shall  not  be  able  to  dine  with  you  before 
I  return.  Remember  me  to  Woodhouse. 

Yours  sincerely  JOHN  KEATS. 

86.   TO  BENJAMIN  ROBERT  HAYDON 

Wentworth  Place,  [December  27, 1818]. 
MY  DEAR  HAYDON  —  I  had  an  engage- 
ment to-day  —  and  it  is  so  fine  a  morning 


LETTERS   OF   JOHN    KEATS 


that  I  cannot  put  it  off  —  I  will  be  with 
you  to-morrow  —  when  we  will  thank  the 
Gods,  though  you  have  bad  eyes  and  I  am 
idle. 

I  regret  more  than  anything  the  not 
being  able  to  dine  with  you  to-day.  I  have 
had  several  movements  that  way  —  but 
then  I  should  disappoint  one  who  has  been 
my  true  friend.  I  will  be  with  you  to- 
morrow morning  and  stop  all  day  —  we 
will  hate  the  profane  vulgar  and  make  us 
Wings. 

God  bless  you.  J.  KEATS. 

87.      TO  FANNY  KEATS 

Wentworth  Place,  Wednesday 
[December  30, 1818]. 

MY  DEAR  FANNY  —  I  am  confined  at 
Hampstead  with  a  sore  throat;  but  I  do 
not  expect  it  will  keep  me  above  two  or 
three  days.  I  intended  to  have  been  in 
Town  yesterday  but  feel  obliged  to  be 
careful  a  little  while.  I  am  in  general  so 
careless  of  these  trifles,  that  they  tease  me 
for  Months,  when  a  few  days'  care  is  all 
that  is  necessary.  I  shall  not  neglect  any 
chance  of  an  endeavour  to  let  you  return 
to  School  —  nor  to  procure  you  a  Visit  to 
Mrs.  Dilke's  which  I  have  great  fears  about. 
Write  me  if  you  can  find  time  —  and  also 
get  a  few  lines  ready  for  George  as  the 
Post  sails  next  Wednesday. 

Your  affectionate  Brother  JOHN . 


88.   TO  BENJAMIN  ROBERT  HAYDON 

Wentworth  Place,  Monday  Aft. 

[January  4, 1819]. 

MY  DEAR  HAYDON  —  I  have  been  out 
this  morning,  and  did  not  therefore  see 
your  note  till  this  minute,  or  I  would  have 
gone  to  town  directly  —  it  is  now  too  late 
for  to-day.  I  will  be  in  town  early  to- 
morrow, and  trust  I  shall  be  able  to  lend 
you  assistance  noon  or  night.  I  was  struck 
with  the  improvement  in  the  architectural 
part  of  your  Picture  —  and,  now  I  think  on 


it,  I  cannot  help  wondering  you  should  have 
had  it  so  poor,  especially  after  the  Solomon. 
Excuse  this  dry  bones  of  a  note:  for  though 
my  pen  may  grow  cold,  I  should  be  sorry 
my  Life  should  freeze  — 
Your  affectionate  friend  JOHN  KEATS. 

89.      TO  THE  SAME 

Wentworth  Place, 
[between  January  7  and  14, 1819], 

MY  DEAR  HAYDON  —  We  are  very  un- 
lucky —  I  should  have  stopped  to  dine  with 
you,  but  I  knew  I  should  not  have  been 
able  to  leave  you  in  time  for  my  plaguy 
sore  throat;  which  is  getting  well. 

I  shall  have  a  little  trouble  in  procuring 
the  Money  and  a  great  ordeal  to  go  through 
—  no  trouble  indeed  to  any  one  else  —  or 
ordeal  either.  I  mean  I  shall  have  to  go 
to  town  some  thrice,  and  stand  in  the  Bank 
an  hour  or  two  —  to  me  worse  than  any- 
thing in  Dante  —  I  should  have  less  chance 
with  the  people  around  me  than  Orpheus 
had  with  the  Stones.  I  have  been  writing 
a  little  now  and  then  lately:  but  nothing 
to  speak  of  —  being  discontented  and  as 
it  were  moulting.  Yet  I  do  not  think  I 
shall  ever  come  to  the  rope  or  the  Pistol, 
for  after  a  day  or  two's  melancholy,  al- 
though I  smoke  more  and  more  my  own 
insufficiency  —  I  see  by  little  and  little 
more  of  what  is  to  be  done,  and  how  it  is  to 
be  done,  should  I  ever  be  able  to  do  it. 
On  my  soul,  there  should  be  some  reward 
for  that  continual  agonie  ennuyeuse.  I  was 
thinking  of  going  into  Hampshire  for  a  few 
days.  I  have  been  delaying  it  longer  than 
I  intended.  You  shall  see  me  soon;  and 
do  not  be  at  all  anxious,  for  this  time  I 
really  will  do,  what  I  never  did  before  in 
my  life,  business  in  good  time,  and  pro- 
perly. —  With  respect  to  the  Bond  —  it 
may  be  a  satisfaction  to  you  to  let  me  have 
it:  but  as  you  love  me  do  not  let  there  be 
any  mention  of  interest,  although  we  are 
mortal  men  —  and  bind  ourselves  for  fear 
of  death. 

Yours  for  ever  JOHN  KEATS. 


TO   C.  W.  DILKE   AND    MRS.  DILKE 


351 


90.      TO  THE  SAME 

Wentworth  Place,  [January  1819]. 

MY  DEAR  HAYDON  —  My  throat  has  not 
suffered  me  yet  to  expose  myself  to  the 
night  air  :  however  I  have  been  to  town  in 
the  day  time  —  have  had  several  interviews 
with  my  guardian  —  have  written  him 
rather  a  plain-spoken  Letter  —  which  has 
had  its  effect;  and  he  now  seems  inclined 
to  put  no  stumbling-block'  in  my  way:  so 
that  I  see  a  good  prospect  of  performing 
my  promise.  What  I  should  have  lent  you 
ere  this  if  I  could  have  got  it,  was  belong- 
ing to  poor  Tom  —  and  the  difficulty  is 
whether  I  am  to  inherit  it  before  my  Sister 
is  of  age;  a  period  of  six  years.  Should  it 
be  so  I  must  incontinently  take  to  Cordu- 
roy Trousers.  But  I  am  nearly  confident 
't  is  all  a  Bam.  I  shall  see  you  soon  —  but 
do  let  me  have  a  line  to-day  or  to-morrow 
concerning  your  health  and  spirits. 

Your  sincere  friend          JOHN  KEATS. 

91.      TO  FANNY  KEATS 

Wentworth  Place,  [January  1819]. 

MY  DEAR  FANNY  —  I  send  this  to  Wal- 
thamstow  for  fear  you  should  not  be  at 
Pancras  Lane  when  I  call  to-morrow  —  be- 
fore going  into  Hampshire  for  a  few  days 
—  I  will  not  be  more  I  assure  you  —  You 
may  think  how  disappointed  I  am  in  not 
being  able  to  see  you  more  and  spend  more 
time  with  you  than  I  do  —  but  how  can 
it  be  helped?  The  thought  is  a  contin- 
ual vexation  to  me  —  and  often  hinders  me 
from  reading  and  composing  —  Write  to 
me  as  often  as  you  can  —  and  believe  me, 

Your  affectionate  Brother  JOHN . 

92.  TO  CHARLES  WENTWORTH  DILKE  AND 
MRS.  DILKE,  FROM  CHARLES  ARMITAGE 
BROWN  AND  KEATS  * 

Bedhampton,  24  January  1819. 
DEAR  DILKE,  —  This  letter  is  for  your 
Wife,  and  if  you  are  a  Gentleman,  you  will 

*  Keats's  portion  of  this  letter  is  printed  in 
Italic,  but  this  does  not  apply  to  the  italicized 


deliver  it  to  her,  without  reading  one  word 
further,  'read  ihou  Squire.  There  is  a 
wager  depending  on  this. 

MY   CHARMING   DEAR   MRS.    DlLKE, — It 

was  delightful  to  receive  a  letter  from  you, 
—  but  such  a  letter  !  what  presumption  in 
me  to  attempt  to  answer  it !  Where  shall 
I  find,  in  my  poor  brain,  such  jibes,  such 
jeers,  such  flashes  of  merriment  ?  Alas  ! 
you  will  say,  as  you  read  me,  Alas  !  poor 
Brown  !  quite  chop  fallen  !  But  that 's 
not  true;  my  chops  have  been  beautifully 
plumped  out  since  I  came  here  :  my 
dinners  have  been  good  &  nourishing  & 
my  inside  never  washed  by  a  red  herring 
broth.  Then  my  mind  has  been  so  happy  ! 
I  have  been  smiled  on  by  the  fair  ones, 
the  Lacy's,  the  Prices,  &  the  Mullings's, 
but  not  by  the  Richards's  ;  Old  Dicky  has 
not  called  here  during  my  visit,  —  I  have 
not  seen  him;  the  whole  of  the  family  are 
shuffling  to  carriage  folks  for  acquaintances, 
cutting  their  old  friends,  and  dealing  out 
pride  &  folly,  while  we  allow  they  have 
got  the  odd  trick,  but  dispute  their  honours. 
I  was  determined  to  be  beforehand  with 
them,  &  behaved  cavalierly  &  neglectingly 
to  the  family,  &  passed  the  girls  in  Havant 
with  a  slight  bow.  —  Keats  is  much  better, 
owing  to  a  strict  forbearance  from  a  third 
glass  of  wine.  He  &  I  walked  from  Chi- 
cester  yesterday,  we  were  here  at  3,  but 
the  Dinner  was  finished  ;  a  brace  of 
Muir  fowl  had  been  dressed;  I  ate  a  piece 
of  the  breast  cold,  &  it  was  not  tainted  ;  I 
dared  not  venture  further.  Mr.  Snook  was 
nearly  turned  sick  by  being  merely  asked 
to  take  a  mouthful.  The  other  brace  was 
so  high,  that  the  cook  declined  preparing 
them  for  the  spit,  &  they  were  thrown  away. 
I  see  your  husband  declared  them  to  be  in 
excellent  order ;  I  supposed  he  enjoyed 
them  in  a  disgusting  manner,  —  sucking 
the  rotten  flesh  off  the  bones,  &  crunching 
the  putrid  bones.  Did  you  eat  any?  I 
hope  not,  for  an  ooman  should  be  delicate 

words  in  the  second  paragraph  designed  by- 
Brown  to  make  his  joke  perfectly  clear. 


352 


LETTERS    OF   JOHN   KEATS 


in  her  food.  —  O  you  Jezabel !  to  sit  quietly 
in  your  room,  while  the  thieves  were  ran- 
sacking my  house  !  No  doubt  poor  Ann's 
throat  was  cut ;  has  the  Coroner  sat  on  her 
yet  ?  —  Mrs.  Snook  says  she  knows  how  to  ' 
hold  a  pen  very  well,  &  wants  no  lessons 
from  me;  only  think  of  the  vanity  of  the 
ooman  !  She  tells  me  to  make  honourable 
mention  of  your  letter  which  she  received 
at  Breakfast  time,  but  how  can  I  do  so  ? 
I  have  not  read  it  ;  &  I  '11  lay  my  life  it  is 
not  a  tenth  part  so  good  as  mine,  —  pshaw 
on  your  letter  to  her  !  —  On  Tuesday  night 
I  think  you  '11  see  me.  In  the  mean  time 
I'll  not  say  a  word  about  spasms  in  the 
way  of  my  profession,  tho'  as  your  friend 
I  must  profess  myself  very  sorry.  Keats 
&  I  are  going  to  call  on  Mr.  Butler  & 
Mr.  Burton  this  morning,  and  tomorrow 
we  shall  go  to  Sanstead  to  see  Mr.  Way's 
Chapel  consecrated  by  the  two  Big-wigs 
of  Gloucester  &  St.  Davids.  If  that  vile 
Carver  &  Gilder  does  not  do  me  justice, 
I'll  annoy  him  all  his  life  with  legal 
sxpenses  at  every  quarter,  if  my  rent  is 
not  sent  to  the  day,  &  that  will  not  be 
revenge  enough  for  the  trouble  &  con- 
fusion he  has  put  me  to.  —  Mrs.  Dilke  is 
remarkably  well  for  Mrs.  Dilke  in  winter. 

—  Have  you  heard  anything  of  John  Blag- 
den;  he  is  off !  want  of  business  has  made 
him   play  the   fool,  —  I   am   sorry  —  that 
Brown  and  you  are  getting  so  very  witty  — 
my  modest  feathered  Pen  frizzles  like  baby 
roast  beef  at  making  its  entrance  among  such 
tantrum  sentences  —  or    rather  ten  senses. 
Brown  super  or  supper  sir  named  the  Sleek 
Ms  been  getting  thinner  a  little  by  pining  op- 
posite Miss  Muggins  —  (Brown  says  Mullins 
but  I  beg  to  differ  from  him)  —  we  sit  it  out 
till  ten  o'  clock  —  Miss  M.  has  persuaded 
Brown  to  shave  his  whiskers  —  he  came  down 
to  Breakfast  like  the  sign  of  the  full  Moon  — 
his  Profile  is  quite  alter'd.  He  looks  more  like 
an  ooman  than  I  ever  could  think  it  possible 

—  and  on  putting  on  Mrs.  D.'s  calash  the  de- 
ception was  complete  especially  as  his  voice  is 


trebled  by  making  love  in  the  draught  of  a 
doorway.  I  too  am  metamorphosed  —  a  young 
ooman  here  in  Bed — hampton  has  over  per- 
suaded me  to  wear  my  shirt  collar  up  to  my 
eyes.  Mrs.  Snook  I  catch  smoaking  it  every 
now  and  then  and  I  believe  Brown  does  but  I 
cannot  now  look  sideways.  Brown  wants  to 
scribble  more  so  I  will  finish  with  a  marginal 
note  —  Viz.  Remember  me  to  Wentworth 
Place  and  Elm  Cottage  —  not  forgetting 
Millamant  — 

Your's  if  possible  J.  Keats. 

This  is  abominable  !  I  did  but  go  up- 
stairs to  put  on  a  clean  &  starched  hand- 
kerchief, &  that  overweening  rogue  read 
my  letter  &  scrawled  over  one  of  my  sheets, 
and  given  him  a  counterpain,  —  I  wish  I 
could  blank-it  all  over  and  beat  him  with  a 

Li 
certain  rod,  &  have  a  fresh  one  bolstered 

up.     Ah!  he  may  dress  me  as  he  likes  but  he 

shan't  tic\Jde  me  pil\low  the  feathers,  —  1 
would  not  give  a  tester  for  such  puns,  let 
us  ope  brown  (erratum  —  a  large  B  —  a 
Bumble  B.)  will  go  no  further  in  the  Bedroom 
&  not  call  Mat  Snook  a  relation  to  Matt- 
rass  —  This  is  grown  to  a  conclusion  —  /  had 
excellent  puns  in  my  head  but  one  bad  one 
from  Brown  has  quite  upset  me  but  I  am 
quite  set-up  for  more,  but  I  'm  content  to 
be  conqueror. 

Tour's  in  love.  CHAS.  BROWN. 

N.  B.  /  beg  leaf  (sic)  to  withdraw  all  my 
puns  —  they  are  all  wash,  an  base  uns. 

93.      TO  FANNY  KEATS 

Wentworth  Place,  Feb*-  [11,1819].  Thursday. 
MY  DEAR  FANNY  —  Your  Letter  to  me 
at  Bedhampton  hurt  me  very  much,  — 
What  objection  can  there'  be  to  your  re- 
ceiving a  Letter  from  me  ?  At  Bedhamp- 
ton I  was  unwell  and  did  not  go  out  of  the 
Garden  Gate  but  twice  or  thrice  during 
the  fortnight  I  was  there  —  Since  I  came 
back  I  have  been  taking  care  of  myself  — 


TO  GEORGE  AND  GEORGIANA  KEATS 


353 


I  have  been  obliged  to  do  so,  and  am  now 
in  hopes  that  by  this  care  I  shall  get  rid 
of  a  sore  throat  which  has  haunted  me  at 
intervals  nearly  a  twelvemonth.  I  had  al- 
ways a  presentiment  of  not  being  able  to 
succeed  in  persuading  Mr.  Abbey  to  let 
you  remain  longer  at  School  —  I  am  very 
sorry  that  he  will  not  consent.  I  recom- 
mend you  to  keep  up  all  that  you  know  and 
to  learn  more  by  yourself  however  little. 
The  time  will  come  when  you  will  be  more 
pleased  with  Life  —  look  forward  to  that 
time  and,  though  it  may  appear  a  trifle  be 
careful  not  to  let  the  idle  and  retired  Life 
you  lead  fix  any  awkward  habit  or  be- 
haviour on  you  —  whether  you  sit  or  walk 
endeavour  to  let  it  be  in  a  seemly  and  if 
possible  a  graceful  manner.  We  have  been 
very  little  together :  but  you  have  not  the 
less  been  with  me  in  thought.  You  have 
no  one  in  the  world  besides  me  who  would 
sacrifice  anything  for  you  —  I  feel  myself 
the  only  Protector  you  have.  In  all  your 
little  troubles  think  of  me  with  the  thought 
that  there  is  at  least  one  person  in  England 
who  if  he  could  would  help  you  out  of 
them  —  I  live  in  hopes  of  being  able  to 
make  you  happy.  —  I  should  not  perhaps 
write  in  this  manner,  if  it  were  not  for  the 
fear  of  not  being  able  to  see  you  often  or 
long  together.  I  am  in  hopes  Mr.  Abbey 
will  not  object  any  more  to  your  receiving 
a  letter  now  and  then  from  me.  How  un- 
reasonable !  I  want  a  few  more  lines  from 
you  for  George  —  there  are  some  young 
Men,  acquaintances  of  a  Schoolfellow  of 
mine,  going  out  to  Birkbeck's  at  the  latter 
end  of  this  Month  —  I  am  in  expectation 
every  day  of  hearing  from  George  —  I 
begin  to  fear  his  last  letters  miscarried.  I 
shall  be  in  town  to-morrow  —  if  you  should 
not  be  in  town,  I  shall  send  this  little  parcel 
by  the  Walthamstow  Coach  —  I  think  you 
will  like  Goldsmith  —  Write  me  soon  — 

Your  affectionate  Brother   JOHN . 

Mrs.  Dilke  has  not  been  very  well —  she 
is  gone  a  walk  to  town  to-day  for  exer- 
cise. 


94.   TO  GEORGE  AND  GEORGIANA  KEATS 

Sunday  Morn*  February  14,  [1818], 
MY  DEAR  BROTHER  AND  SISTER  —  How 
is  it  that  we  have  not  heard  from  you  from 
the  Settlement  yet?  The  letters  must 
surely  have  miscarried.  I  am  in  expecta- 
tion every  day.  Peachey  wrote  me  a  few 
days  ago,  saying  some  more  acquaintances 
of  his  were  preparing  to  set  out  for  Birk- 
beck;  therefore  I  shall  take  the  opportunity 
of  sending  you  what  I  can  muster  in  a 
sheet  or  two.  I  am  still  at  Wentworth 
Place  —  indeed,  I  have  kept  indoors  lately, 
resolved  if  possible  to  rid  myself  of  my 
sore  throat  ;  consequently  I  have  not  been 
to  see  your  Mother  since  my  return  from 
Chichester  ;  but  my  absence  from  her  has 
been  a  great  weight  upon  me.  I  say  since 
my  return  from  Chichester  —  I  believe  I 
told  you  I  was  going  thither.  I  was  near- 
ly a  fortnight  at  Mr.  John  Snook's  and  a 
few  days  at  old  Mr.  Dilke's.  Nothing 
worth  speaking  of  happened  at  either  place. 
I  took  down  some  thin  paper  and  wrote  on 
it  a  little  poem  called  St.  Agnes's  Eve, 
which  you  shall  have  as  it  is  when  I  have 
finished  the  blank  part  of  the  rest  for  you. 
I  went  out  twice  at  Chichester  to  dowager 
Card  parties.  I  see  very  little  now,  and 
very  few  persons,  being  almost  tired  of 
men  and  things.  Brown  and  Dilke  are 
very  kind  and  considerate  towards  me. 
The  Miss  R.'s  have  been  stopping  next  door 
lately,  but  are  very  dull.  Miss  Brawne 
and  I  have  every  now  and  then  a  chat  and 
a  tiff.  Brown  and  Dilke  are  walking 
round  their  garden,  hands  in  pockets,  mak- 
ing observations.  The  literary  world  I 
know  nothing  about.  There  is  a  poem 
from  Rogers  dead  born ;  and  another 
satire  is  expected  from  Byron,  called  "  Don 
Giovanni."  Yesterday  I  went  to  town  for 
the  first  time  for  these  three  weeks.  I  met 
people  from  all  parts  and  of  all  sets  —  Mr. 
Towers,  one  of  the  Holts,  Mr.  Dominie 
Williams,  Mr.  Woodhouse,  Mrs.  Hazlitt 
and  son,  Mrs.  Webb,  and  Mrs.  Septimus 


354 


LETTERS    OF   JOHN    KEATS 


Brown.  Mr.  Woodhouse  was  looking  up 
at  a  book  window  in  Newgate  Street,  and, 
being  short-sighted,  twisted  his  muscles 
into  so  queer  a  stage  that  I  stood  by  in 
doubt  whether  it  was  him  or  his  brother,  if 
he  has  one,  and  turning  round,  saw  Mrs. 
Hazlitt,  with  that  little  Nero,  her  son. 
Woodhouse,  on  his  features  subsiding, 
proved  to  be  Woodhouse,  and  not  his 
brother.  I  have  had  a  little  business  with 
Mr.  Abbey  from  time  to  time  ;  he  has 
behaved  to  me  with  a  little  Brusquerie  : 
this  hurt  me  a  little,  especially  when  I 
knew  him  to  be  the  only  man  in  England 
who  dared  to  say  a  thing  to  me  I  did  not 
approve  of  without  its  being  resented,  or 
at  least  noticed  —  so  I  wrote  him  about 
it,  and  have  made  an  alteration  in  my 
favour  —  I  expect  from  this  to  see  more  of 
Fanny,  who  has  been  quite  shut  out  from 
me.  I  see  Cobbett  has  been  attacking  the 
Settlement,  but  I  cannot  tell  what  to  be- 
lieve, and  shall  be  all  out  at  elbows  till  I 
hear  from  you.  I  am  invited  to  Miss  Mil- 
ler's birthday  dance  on  the  19th  —  I  am 
nearly  sure  I  shall  not  be  able  to  go.  A 
dance  would  injure  my  throat  very  much. 
I  see  very  little  of  Reynolds.  Hunt,  I 
hear,  is  going  on  very  badly  —  I  mean  in 
money  matters.  I  shall  not  be  surprised 
to  hear  of  the  worst.  Haydon  too,  in  con- 
sequence of  his  eyes,  is  out  at  elbows. 
I  live  as  prudently  as  it  is  possible  for  me 
to  do.  I  have  not  seen  Haslam  lately.  I 
have  not  seen  Richards  for  this  half  year, 
Rice  for  three  months,  or  Charles  Cowden 
Clarke  for  God  knows  when. 

When  I  last  called  in  Henrietta  Street 47 
Miss  Millar  was  very  unwell,  and  Miss 
Waldegrave  as  staid  and  self-possessed  as 
usual.  Henry  was  well.  There  are  two 
new  tragedies  —  one  by  the  apostate  Maw, 
and  one  by  Miss  Jane  Porter.  Next  week 
I  am  going  to  stop  at  Taylor's  for  a  few 
days,  when  I  will  see  them  both  and  tell 
you  what  they  are.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bentley 
are  well,  and  all  the  young  carrots.  I  said 
nothing  of  consequence  passed  at  Snooks's 


—  no  more  than  this  —  that  I  like  the 
family  very  much.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Snooks 
were  very  kind.  We  used  to  have  a  little 
religion  and  politics  together  almost  every 
evening,  —  and  sometimes  about  you.  He 
proposed  writing  out  for  me  his  experience 
in  farming,  for  me  to  send  to  you.  If  I 
should  have  an  opportunity  of  talking  to 
him  about  it,  I  will  get  all  I  can  at  all 
events  ;  but  you  may  say  in  your  answer  to 
this  what  value  you  place  upon  such  in- 
formation. I  have  not  seen  Mr.  Lewis 
lately,  for  I  have  shrunk  from  going  up 
the  hill.  Mr.  Lewis  went  a  few  mornings 
ago  to  town  with  Mrs.  Brawne.  They 
talked  about  me,  and  I  heard  that  Mr.  L. 
said  a  thing  I  am  not  at  all  contented  with. 
Says  he,  <O,  he  is  quite  the  little  poet/ 
Now  this  is  abominable  —  You  might  as 
well  say  Buonaparte  is  quite  the  little 
soldier.  You  see  what  it  is  to  be  under  six 
foot  and  not  a  lord.  There  is  a  long  fuzz 
to-day  in  the  Examiner  about  a  young  mai. 
who  delighted  a  young  woman  with  a 
valentine  —  I  think  it  must  be  Ollier's 
Brown  and  I  are  thinking  of  passing  the 
summer  at  Brussels  —  If  we  do,  we  shall 
go  about  the  first  of  May.  We  —  i.  e. 
Brown  and  I  —  sit  opposite  one  another 
all  day  authorizing  (N.  B.,  an  '  s '  instead 
of  a  'z*  would  give  a  different  meaning). 
He  is  at  present  writing  a  story  of  an  old 
woman  who  lived  in  a  forest,  and  to  whom 
the  Devil  or  one  of  his  aides-de-feu  came 
one  night  very  late  and  in  disguise.  The 
old  dame  sets  before  him  pudding  after 
pudding  —  mess  after  mess  —  which  he  de- 
vours, and  moreover  casts  his  eyes  up  at 
a  side  of  Bacon  hanging  over  his  head,  and 
at  the  same  time  asks  if  her  Cat  is  a.  Rab- 
bit. On  going  he  leaves  her  three  pips 
of  Eve's  Apple,  and  somehow  she,  having 
lived  a  virgin  all  her  life,  begins  to  repent 
of  it,  and  wished  herself  beautiful  enough 
to  make  all  the  world  and  even  the  other 
world  fall  in  love  with  her.  So  it  hap- 
pens, she  sets  out  from  her  smoky  cottage 
in  magnificent  apparel.  —  The  first  City 


TO  GEORGE  AND  GEORGIANA  KEATS 


355 


she  enters,  every  one  falls  in  love  with  her, 
from  the  Prince  to  the  Blacksmith.  A 
young  gentleman  on  his  way  to  the  Church 
to  be  married  leaves  his  unfortunate  Bride 
and  follows  this  nonsuch  —  A  whole  regi- 
ment of  soldiers  are  smitten  at  once  and 
follow  her  —  A  whole  convent  of  Monks  in 
Corpus  Christi  procession  join  the  soldiers. 
The  mayor  and  corporation  follow  the 
same  road  —  Old  and  young,  deaf  and 
dumb,  —  all  but  the  blind,  —  are  smitten, 
and  form  an  immense  concourse  of  people, 

who what  Brown  will  do  with  them  I 

know  not.  The  devil  himself  falls  in  love 
with  her,  flies  away  with  her  to  a  desert 
place,  in  consequence  of  which  she  lays  an 
infinite  number  of  eggs  —  the  eggs  being 
hatched  from  time  to  time,  fill  the  world 
with  many  nuisances,  such  as  John  Knox, 
George  Fox,  Johanna  Southcote,  and  Gif- 
ford. 

There  have  been  within  a  fortnight  eight 
failures  of  the  highest  consequence  in  Lon- 
don. Brown  went  a  few  evenings  since 
to  Davenport's,  and  on  his  coming  in  he 
talked  about  bad  news  in  the  city  with  such 
a  face  I  began  to  think  of  a  national  bank- 
ruptcy. I  did  not  feel  much  surprised  and 
was  rather  disappointed.  Carlisle,  a  book- 
seller on  the  Hone  principle,  has  been 
issuing  pamphlets  from  his  shop  in  Fleet 
Street  called  the  Deist.  He  was  conveyed 
to  Newgate  last  Thursday  ;  he  intends 
making  his  own  defence.  I  was  surprised 
to  hear  from  Taylor  the  amount  of  money 
of  the  bookseller's  last  sale.  What  think 
you  of  £25,000  ?  He  sold  4000  copies  of 
Lord  Byron.  I  am  sitting  opposite  the 
Shakspeare  I  brought  from  the  Isle  of 
Wight  —  and  I  never  look  at  him  but  the 
silk  tassels  48  on  it  give  me  as  much  plea- 
sure as  the  face  of  the  poet  itself. 

In  my  next  packet,  as  this  is  one  by  the 
way,  I  shall  send  you  the  Pot  of  Basil,  St. 
Agnes  Eve,  and  if  I  should  have  finished 
it,  a  little  thing  called  the  Eve  of  St.  Mark. 
You  see  what  fine  Mother  Radcliff  names 


I  have  —  it  is  not  my  fault  —  I  do  not 
search  for  them.  I  have  not  gone  on  with 
Hyperion  —  for  to  tell  the  truth  I  have  not 
been  in  great  cue  for  writing  lately  —  I  must 
wait  for  the  spring  to  rouse  me  up  a  little. 
The  only  time  I  went  out  from  Bedhamp- 
ton  was  to  see  a  chapel  consecrated  — 
Brown,  I,  and  John  Snook  the  boy,  went 
in  a  chaise  behind  a  leaden  horse.  Brown 
drove,  but  the  horse  did  not  mind  him. 
This  chapel  is  built  by  a  Mr.  Way,  a  great 
Jew  converter,  who  in  that  line  has  spent 
one  hundred  thousand  pounds.  He  main- 
tains a  great  number  of  poor  Jews — Of 
course  his  communion  plate  was  stolen.  He 
spoke  to  the  clerk  about  it  —  The  clerk 
said  he  was  very  sorry,  adding,  ll  dare 
shay,  your  honour,  it 's  among  ush.' 

The  chapel  is  built  in  Mr.  Way's  park. 
The  consecration  was  not  amusing.  There 
were  numbers  of  carriages  —  and  his  house 
crammed  with  clergy  —  They  sanctified  the 
Chapel,  and  it  being  a  wet  day,  consecrated 
the  burial-ground  through  the  vestry  win- 
dow. I  begin  to  hate  parson!  ;  they  did 
not  make  me  love  them  that  day  when  I 
saw  them  in  their  proper  colours.  A  par- 
son is  a  Lamb  in  a  drawing-room,  and  a 
Lion  in  a  vestry.  The  notions  of  Society 
will  not  permit  a  parson  to  give  way  to  his 
temper  in  any  shape  —  So  he  festers  in 
himself  —  his  features  get  a  peculiar,  dia- 
bolical, self  sufficient,  iron  stupid  expres- 
sion. He  is  continually  acting  —  his  mind 
is  against  every  man,  and  every  man's 
mind  is  against  him  —  He  is  a  hypocrite  to 
the  Believer  and  a  coward  to  the  unbeliever 
—  He  must  be  either  a  knave  or  an  idiot  — 
and  there  is  no  man  so  much  to  be  pit- 
ied as  an  idiot  parson.  The  soldier  who 
is  cheated  into  an  Esprit  du  Corps  by  a 
red  coat,  a  band,  and  colours,  for  the  pur- 
pose of  nothing,  is  not  half  so  pitiable  as 
the  parson  who  is  led  by  the  nose  by  the 
Bench  of  Bishops  and  is  smothered  in  ab- 
surdities —  a  poor  necessary  subaltern  of 
the  Church. 


356 


LETTERS   OF  JOHN   KEATS 


Friday,  Feb*-  18. 

The  day  before  yesterday  I  went  to 
Romney  Street  —  your  Mother  was  not  at 
home  —  but  I  have  just  written  her  that  I 
shall  see  her  on  Wednesday.  I  call'd  on  Mr. 
Lewis  this  morning  —  he  is  very  well  — 
and  tells  me  not  to  be  uneasy  about  Let- 
ters, the  chances  being  so  arbitrary.  He 
is  going  on  as  usual  among  his  favourite 
democrat  papers.  We  had  a  chat  as  usual 
about  Cobbett  and  the  Westminster  elec- 
tors. Dilke  has  lately  been  very  much 
harrassed  about  the  manner  of  educating 
his  son  —  he  at  length  decided  for  a  public 
school  —  and  then  he  did  not  know  what 
school  —  he  at  last  has  decided  for  West- 
minster ;  and  as  Charley  is  to  be  a  day 
boy,  Dilke  will  remove  to  Westminster. 
We  lead  very  quiet  lives  here  —  Dilke  is 
at  present  in  Greek  histories  and  anti- 
quities, and  talks  of  nothing  but  the  elec- 
tors of  Westminster  and  the  retreat  of 
the  ten  -  thousand.  I  never  drink  now 
above  three  glasses  of  wine  —  and  never 
any  spirits  and  water.  Though  by  the 
bye,  the  other  day  Woodhouse  took  me  to 
his  coffee  house  and  ordered  a  Bottle  of 
Claret  —  now  I  like  Claret,  whenever  I 
can  have  Claret  I  must  drink  it,  —  't  is  the 
only  palate  affair  that  I  am  at  all  sensual 
in.  Would  it  not  be  a  good  speck  to  send 
you  some  vine  roots  —  could  it  be  done  ? 
I  '11  enquire  —  If  you  could  make  some 
wine  like  Claret  to  drink  on  summer  even- 
ings in  an  arbour  !  For  really  't  is  so  fine  — 
it  fills  one's  mouth  with  a  gushing  fresh- 
ness —  then  goes  down  cool  and  f everless 
—  then  you  do  not  feel  it  quarrelling  with 
your  liver  —  no,  it  is  rather  a  Peacemaker, 
and  lies  as  quiet  as  it  did  in  the  grape  ; 
then  it  is  as  fragrant  as  the  Queen  Bee, 
and  the  more  ethereal  Part  of  it  mounts 
into  the  brain,  not  assaulting  the  cerebral 
apartments  like  a  bully  in  a  bad-house 
looking  for  his  trull  and  hurrying  from 
door  to  door  bouncing  against  the  wainst- 
coat,  but  rather  walks  like  Aladdin  about 
his  own  enchanted  palace  so  gently  that 


you  do  not  feel  his  step.  Other  wines  of 
a  heavy  and  spirituous  nature  transform 
a  Man  to  a  Silenus  :  this  makes  him  a 
Hermes  —  and  gives  a  Woman  the  soul  and 
immortality  of  Ariadne,  for  whom  Bacchus 
always  kept  a  good  cellar  of  claret  —  and 
even  of  that  he  could  never  persuade  her  to 
take  above  two  cups.  I  said  this  same 
claret  is  the  only  palate-passion  I  have  — 
I  forgot  game  —  I  must  plead  guilty  to 
the  breast  of  a  Partridge,  the  back  of  a 
hare,  the  backbone  of  a  grouse,  the  wing 
and  side  of  a  Pheasant  and  a  Woodcock 
passim.  Talking  of  game  (I  wish  I  could 
make  it),  the  Lady  whom  I  met  at  Hast- 
ings and  of  whom  I  said  something  in  my 
last  I  think  has  lately  made  me  many  pre- 
sents of  game,  and  enabled  me  to  make  as 
many.  She  made  me  take  home  a  Pheas- 
ant the  other  day,  which  I  gave  to  Mrs. 
Dilke  ;  on  which  to-morrow  Rice,  Reynolds 
and  the  Wentworthians  will  dine  next  door. 
The  next  I  intend  for  your  Mother.  These 
moderate  sheets  of  paper  are  much  more 
pleasant  to  write  upon  than  those  large  thin 
sheets  which  I  hope  you  by  this  time  have 
received  —  though  that  can't  be,  now  I 
think  of  it.  I  have  not  said  in  any  Letter 
yet  a  word  about  my  affairs  —  in  a  word  I 
am  in  no  despair  about  them  —  my  poem 
has  not  at  all  succeeded  ;  in  the  course  of 
a  year  or  so  I  think  I  shall  try  the  public 
again  —  in  a  selfish  point  of  view  I  should 
suffer  my  pride  and  my  contempt  of  public 
opinion  to  hold  me  silent  —  but  for  yours 
and  Fanny's  sake  I  will  pluck  up  a  spirit 
and  try  again.  I  have  no  doubt  of  success 
in  a  course  of  years  if  I  persevere  —  but 
it  must  be  patience,  for  the  Reviews  have 
enervated  and  made  indolent  men's  minds 
—  few  think  for  themselves.  These  Re- 
views too  are  getting  more  and  more 
powerful,  especially  the  Quarterly  —  they 
are  like  a  superstition  which  the  more 
it  prostrates  the  Crowd  and  the  longer  it 
continues  the  more  powerful  it  becomes 
just  in  proportion  to  their  increasing  weak- 
ness. I  was  in  hopes  that  when  people  saw. 


TO  GEORGE  AND  GEORGIANA  KEATS 


357 


as  they  must  do  now,  all  the  trickery  and 
iniquity  of  these  Plagues  they  would  scout 
them,  but  no,  they  are  like  the  spectators 
at  the  Westminster  cock-pit  —  they  like 
the  battle  and  do  not  care  who  wins  or  who 
loses.  Brown  is  going  on  this  morning 
with  the  story  of  his  old  woman  and  the 
Devil  —  He  makes  but  slow  progress  — 
The  fact  is  it  is  a  Libel  on  the  Devil,  and 
as  that  person  is  Brown's  Muse,  look  ye,  if 
he  libels  his  own  Muse  how  can  he  expect 
to  write  ?  Either  Brown  or  his  Muse  must 
turn  tail.  Yesterday  was  Charley  Dilke's 
birthday.  Brown  and  I  were  invited  to 
tea.  During  the  evening  nothing  passed 
worth  notice  but  a  little  conversation  be- 
tween Mrs.  Dilke  and  Mrs.  Brawne.  The 
subject  was  the  Watchman.  It  was  ten 
o'clock,  and  Mrs.  Brawne,  who  lived  during 
the  summer  in  Brown's  house  and  now  lives 
in  the  Road,  recognized  her  old  Watch- 
man's voice,  and  said  that  he  came  as  far 
as  her  now.  *  Indeed,'  said  Mrs.  D., 
'  does  he  turn  the  Corner  ? '  There  have 
been  some  letters  passed  between  me  and 
Haslam  but  I  have  not  seen  him  lately. 
The  day  before  yesterday  —  which  I  made 
a  day  of  Business  —  I  called  upon  him  — 
he  was  out  as  usual.  Brown  has  been 
walking  up  and  down  the  room  a-breeding 
—  now  at  this  moment  he  is  being  de- 
livered of  a  couplet,  and  I  daresay  will  be 
as  well  as  can  be  expected.  Gracious  —  he 
has  twins  ! 

I  have  a  long  story  to  tell  you  about 
Bailey  —  I  will  say  first  the  circumstances 
as  plainly  and  as  well  as  I  can  remember, 
and  then  I  will  make  my  comment.  You 
know  that  Bailey  was  very  much  cut  up 
about  a  little  Jilt  in  the  country  somewhere. 
I  thought  he  was  in  a  dying  state  about  it 
when  at  Oxford  with  him:  little  supposing, 
as  I  have  since  heard,  that  he  was  at  that 
very  time  making  impatient  Love  to  Marian 
Reynolds  —  and  guess  my  astonishment  at 
hearing  after  this  that  he  had  been  trying 
at  Miss  Martin.  So  Matters  have  been  — 
So  Matters  stood  —  when  he  got  ordained 


and  went  to  a  Curacy  near  Carlisle,  where 
the  family  of  the  Gleigs  reside.  There  his 
susceptible  heart  was  conquered  by  Miss 
Gleig  —  and  thereby  all  his  connections  in 
town  have  been  annulled  —  both  male  and 
female.  I  do  not  now  remember  clearly 
the  facts  —  These  however  I  know  —  He 
showed  his  correspondence  with  Marian  to 
Gleig,  returned  all  her  Letters  and  asked 
for  his  own  —  he  also  wrote  very  abrupt 
Letters  to  Mrs.  Reynolds.  I  do  not  know 
any  more  of  the  Martin  affair  than  I  have 
written  above.  No  doubt  his  conduct  has 
been  very  bad.  The  great  thing  to  be  con- 
sidered is  —  whether  it  is  want  of  delicacy 
and  principle  or  want  of  knowledge  and 
polite  experience.  And  again  weakness  — 
yes,  that  is  it ;  and  the  want  of  a  Wife  — 
yes,  that  is  it;  and  then  Marian  made  great 
Bones  of  him  although  her  Mother  and 
sister  have  teased  her  very  much  about  it. 
Her  conduct  has  been  very  upright  through- 
out the  whole  affair  —  She  liked  Bailey  as 
a  Brother  but  not  as  a  Husband  —  espe- 
cially as  he  used  to  woo  her  with  the  Bible 
and  Jeremy  Taylor  under  his  arm  —  they 
walked  in  no  grove  but  Jeremy  Taylor's. 
Marian's  obstinacy  is  some  excuse,  but  his 
so  quickly  taking  to  Miss  Gleig  can  have 
no  excuse  —  except  that  of  a  Ploughman 
who  wants  a  wife.  The  thing  which  sways 
me  more  against  him  than  anything  else  is 
Rice's  conduct  on  the  occasion;  Rice  would 
not  make  an  immature  resolve  :  he  was 
ardent  in  his  friendship  for  Bailey,  he  ex- 
amined the  whole  for  and  against  minutely ; 
and  he  has  abandoned  Bailey  entirely.  All 
this  I  am  not  supposed  by  the  Reynoldses 
to  have  any  hint  of.  It  will  be  a  good 
lesson  to  the  Mother  and  Daughters  — 
nothing  would  serve  but  Bailey.  If  you 
mentioned  the  word  Tea-pot  some  one  of 
them  came  out  with  an  a  propros  about 
Bailey  —  noble  fellow  —  fine  fellow  !  was 
always  in  their  mouths  —  This  may  teach 
them  that  the  man  who  ridicules  romance 
is  the  most  romantic  of  Men  —  that  he  who 
abuses  women  and  slights  them  loves  them 


358 


LETTERS   OF   JOHN    KEATS 


the  most  —  that  he  who  talks  of  roasting 
a  Man  alive  would  not  do  it  when  it  came 
to  the  push  —  and  above  all,  that  they  are 
very  shallow  people  who  take  everything 
literally.  A  Man's  life  of  any  worth  is  a 
continual  allegory,  and  very  few  eyes  can 
see  the  Mystery  of  his  life  —  a  life  like  the 
scriptures,  figurative  —  which  such  people 
can  no  more  make  out  than  they  can  the 
Hebrew  Bible.  Lord  Byron  cuts  a  figure 
but  he  is  not  figurative  —  Shakspeare  led  a 
life  of  Allegory  :  his  works  are  the  com- 
ments on  it  — 

March  12,  Friday. 

I  went  to  town  yesterday  chiefly  for  the 
purpose  of  seeing  some  young  Men  who 
were  to  take  some  Letters  for  us  to  you  — 
through  the  medium  of  Peachey.  I  was 
surprised  and  disappointed  at  hearing  they 
had  changed  their  minds,  and  did  not  pur- 
pose going  so  far  as  Birkbeck's.  I  was 
much  disappointed,  for  I  had  counted  upon 
seeing  some  persons  who  were  to  see  you 
—  and  upon  your  seeing  some  who  had 
seen  me.  I  have  not  only  lost  this  oppor- 
tunity, but  the  sail  of  the  Post-Packet  to 
New  York  or  Philadelphia,  by  which  last 
your  Brothers  have  sent  some  Letters.  The 
weather  in  town  yesterday  was  so  stifling 
that  I  could  not  remain  there  though  I 
wanted  much  to  see  Kean  in  Hotspur.  I 
have  by  me  at  present  Hazlitt's  Letter  to 
Gifford  —  perhaps  you  would  like  an  ex- 
tract or  two  from  the  high-seasoned  parts. 
It  begins  thus  : 

'  Sir,  you  have  an  ugly  trick  of  saying  what 
is  not  true  of  any  one  you  do  not  like  ;  and  it 
will  be  the  object  of  this  Letter  to  cure  you  of 
it.  You  say  what  you  please  of  others;  it  is 
time  you  were  told  what  you  are.  In  doing 
this  give  me  leave  to  borrow  the  familiarity  of 
your  style :  —  for  the  fidelity  of  the  picture  I 
shall  be  answerable.  You  are  a  little  person 
but  a  considerable  cat's  paw;  and  so  far  worthy 
of  notice.  Your  clandestine  connection  with 
persons  high  in  office  constantly  influences  your 
opinions  and  alone  gives  importance  to  them. 
You  are  the  government  critic,  a  character 


nicely  differing  from  that  of  a  government  spy 
—  the  invisible  link  which  connects  literature 
with  the  Police.' 

Again  : 

'Your  employers,  Mr.  Gifford,  do  not  pay 
their  hirelings  for  nothing  —  for  condescending 
to  notice  weak  and  wicked  sophistry;  for  point- 
ing out  to  contempt  what  excites  no  admira- 
tion ;  for  cautiously  selecting  a,  few  specimens 
of  bad  taste  and  bad  grammar  where  nothing 
else  is  to  be  found.  They  want  your  invisible 
pertness,  your  mercenary  malice,  your  impene- 
trable dulness,  your  bare-faced  impudence, 
your  pragmatical  self-sufficiency,  your  hypo- 
critical zeal,  your  pious  frauds  to  stand  in  the 
gap  of  their  Prejudices  and  pretensions  to  fly- 
blow and  taint  public  opinion,  to  defeat  inde- 
pendent efforts,  to  apply  not  the  touch  of  the 
scorpion  but  the  touch  of  the  Torpedo  to  youth- 
ful hopes,  to  crawl  and  leave  the  slimy  track  of 
sophistry  and  lies  over  every  work  that  does 
not  dedicate  its  sweet  leaves  to  some  Luminary 
of  the  treasury  bench,  or  is  not  fostered  in  the 
hotbed  of  corruption.  This  is  your  office  ;  "  this 
is  what  is  look'd  for  at  your  hands,  and  this 
you  do  not  baulk"  —  to  sacrifice  what  little 
honesty  and  prostitute  what  little  intellect  you 
possess  to  any  dirty  job  you  are  commission 'd 
to  execute.  "  They  keep  you  as  an  ape  does  an 
apple  in  the  corner  of  his  jaw,  first  mouth'd  to 
be  at  last  swallow'd."  You  are  by  appoint- 
ment literary  toadeater  to  greatness  and  taster 
to  the  court.  You  have  a  natural  aversion  to 
whatever  differs  from  your  own  pretensions, 
and  an  acquired  one  for  what  gives  offence  to 
your  superiors.  Your  vanity  panders  to  your 
interest,  and  your  malice  truckles  only  to  your 
love  of  Power.  If  yoUr  instructive  or  premedi- 
tated abuse  of  your  enviable  trust  were  found 
wanting  in  a  single  instance ;  if  you  were  to 
make  a  single  slip  in  getting  up  your  select 
committee  of  enquiry  and  green  bag  report  of 
the  state  of  Letters,  your  occupation  would  be 
gone.  You  would  never  after  obtain  a  squeeze 
of  the  hand  from  acquaintance,  or  a  smile  from 
a  Punk  of  quality.  The  great  and  powerful 
whom  you  call  wise  and  good  do  not  like  to 
have  the  privacy  of  their  self-love  startled  by 
the  obtrusive  and  unmanageable  claims  of  Lit- 
erature and  Philosophy,  except  through  the 
intervention  of  people  like  you,  whom,  if  they 
have  common  penetration,  they  soon  find  out  to 
be  without  any  superiority  of  intellect ;  or  if 
they  do  not,  whom  they  can  despise  for  their 
meanness  of  soul.  You  "have  the  office  oppo- 
site to  Saint  Peter.''  You  keep  a  corner  in  the 


TO   GEORGE   AND   GEORGIANA   KEATS 


359 


public  mind  for  foul  prejudice  and  corrupt 
power  to  knot  and  gender  in  ;  you  volunteer 
your  services  to  people  of  quality  to  ease  scruples 
of  mind  and  qualms  of  conscience  ;  you  lay  the 
flattering  unction  of  venal  prose  and  laurell'd 
verse  to  their  souls.  You  persuade  them  that 
there  is  neither  purity  of  morals,  nor  depth  of 
understanding  except  in  themselves  and  their 
hangers-on  ;  and  would  prevent  the  unhallow'd 
names  of  Liberty  and  humanity  from  ever  be- 
ing whispered  in  ears  polite  !  You,  sir,  do  you 
not  all  this  ?  I  cry  you  mercy  then :  I  took  you 
for  the  Editor  of  the  Quarterly  Review.' 

This  is  the  sort  of  feu  de  joie  he  keeps 
up.  There  is  another  extract  or  two  — 
one  especially  which  I  will  copy  to-morrow 
—  for  the  candles  are  burnt  down  and  I 
am  using  the  wax  taper  —  which  has  a  long 
snuff  on  it  —  the  fire  is  at  its  last  click  —  I 
am  sitting  with  my  back  to  it  with  one  foot 
rather  askew  upon  the  rug  and  the  other 
with  the  heel  a  little  elevated  from  the 
carpet  —  I  am  writing  this  on  the  Maid's 
Tragedy,  which  I  have  read  since  tea  with 
great  pleasure  —  Besides  this  volume  of 
Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  there  are  on  the 
table  two  volumes  of  Chaucer  and  a  new 
work  of  Tom  Moore's,  called  Tom  Cribb's 
Memorial  to  Congress  —  nothing  in  it. 
These  are  trifles  —  but  I  require  nothing 
so  much  of  you  but  that  you  will  give  one 
a  like  description  of  yourselves,  however  it 
may  be  when  you  are  writing  to  me.  Could 
I  see  the  same  thing  done  of  any  great 
Man  long  since  dead  it  would  be  a  great 
delight:  as  to  know  in  what  position  Shak- 
speare  sat  when  he  began  *  To  be  or  not  to 
be  '  —  such  things  become  interesting  from 
distance  of  time  or  place.  I  hope  you  are 
both  now  in  that  sweet  sleep  which  no  two 
beings  deserve  more  than  you  do  —  I  must 
fancy  so  —  and  please  myself  in  the  fancy 
of  speaking  a  prayer  and  a  blessing  over 
you  and  your  lives  —  God  bless  you  —  I 
whisper  good-night  in  your  ears,  and  you 
will  dream  of  me. 

March  13,  Saturday. 

I  have  written  to  Fanny  this  morning 
and  received  a  note  from  Haslam.  I  was 


to  have  dined  with  him  to-morrow :  he 
gives  me  a  bad  account  of  his  Father,  who 
has  not  been  in  Town  for  five  weeks,  and 
is  not  well  enough  for  company.  Haslam 
is  well  —  and  from  the  prosperous  state 
of  some  love  affair  he  does  not  mind  the 
double  tides  he  has  to  work.  I  have  been 
a  Walk  past  west  end  —  and  was  going  to 
call  at  Mr.  Monkhouse's — but  I  did  not, 
not  being  in  the  humour.  I  know  not  why 
Poetry  and  I  have  been  so  distant  lately  ; 
I  must  make  some  advances  soon  or  she 
will  cut  me  entirely.  Hazlitt  has  this  fine 
Passage  in  his  Letter  :  Gifford  in  his  Re- 
view of  Hazlitt's  characters  of  Shakspeare 's 
plays  attacks  the  Coriolanus  critique.  He 
says  that  Hazlitt  has  slandered  Shakspeare 
in  saying  that  he  had  a  leaning  to  the  arbi- 
trary side  of  the  question.  Hazlitt  thus 
defends  himself, 

'  My  words  are,  "  Coriolanus  is  a  storehouse  of 
political  common-places.  The  Arguments  for 
and  against  aristocracy  and  democracy  on  the 
Privileges  of  the  few  and  the  claims  of  the 
many,  on  Liberty  and  slavery,  power  and  the 
abuse  of  it,  peace-  and  war,  are  here  very  ably 
handled,  with  the  spirit  of  a  Poet  and  the 
acuteness  of  a  Philosopher.  Shakspeare  himself 
seems  to  have  had  a  leaning  to  the  arbitrary 
side  of  the  question,  perhaps  from  some  feeling 
of  contempt  for  his  own  origin,  and  to  have 
spared  no  occasion  of  bating  the  rabble.  What 
he  says  of  them  is  very  true  ;  what  he  says  of 
their  betters  is  also  very  true,  though  he  dwells 
less  upon  it."  I  then  proceed  to  account  for 
this  by  showing  how  it  is  that  "  the  cause  of  the 
people  is  but  little  calculated  for  a  subject  for 
poetry;  or  that  the  language  of  Poetry  natu- 
rally falls  in  with  the  language  of  power."  I 
affirm,  Sir,  that  Poetry,  that  the  imagination 
generally  speaking,  delights  in  power,  in  strong 
excitement,  as  well  as  in  truth,  in  good,  in  right, 
whereas  pure  reason  and  the  moral  sense  ap- 
prove only  of  the  true  and  good.  I  proceed  to 
show  that  this  general  love  or  tendency  to  im- 
mediate excitement  or  theatrical  effect,  no 
matter  how  produced,  gives  a  Bias  to  the  im- 
agination often  consistent  with  the  greatest 
good,  that  in  Poetry  it  triumphs  over  principle, 
and  bribes  the  passions  to  make  a  sacrifice  of 
common  humanity.  You  say  that  it  does  not, 
that  there  is  no  such  original  Sin  in  Poetry, 


36° 


LETTERS  OF  JOHN  KEATS 


that  it  makes  no  such  sacrifice  or  unworthy 
compromise  between  poetical  effect  and  the 
still  small  voice  of  reason.  And  how  do  you 
prove  that  there  is  no  such  principle  giving  a 
bias  to  the  imagination  and  a  false  colouring 
to  poetry  ?  Why,  by  asking  in  reply  to  the 
instances  where  this  principle  operates,  and 
where  no  other  can  with  much  modesty  and 
simplicity —  "  But  are  these  the  only  topics  that 
afford  delight  in  Poetry,  etc.  ?  "  No  ;  but  these 
objects  do  afford  delight  in  poetry,  and  they 
afford  it  in  proportion  to  their  strong  and  often 
tragical  effect,  and  not  in  proportion  to  the  good 
produced,  or  their  desireableness  in  a  moral 
point  of  view.  Do  we  read  with  more  pleasure 
of  the  ravages  of  a  beast  of  prey  than  of  the 
Shepherd's  pipe  upon  the  Mountain  ?  No ;  but 
we  do  read  with  pleasure  of  the  ravages  of  a 
beast  of  prey,  and  we  do  so  on  the  principle  I 
have  stated,  namely,  from  the  sense  of  power 
abstracted  from  the  sense  of  good  ;  and  it  is  the 
same  principle  that  makes  us  read  with  admira- 
tion and  reconciles  us  in  fact  to  the  triumphant 
progress  of  the  conquerors  and  mighty  Hunters 
of  mankind,  who  come  to  stop  the  Shepherd's 
Pipe  upon  the  Mountains  and  sweep  away  his 
listening  flock.  Do  you  mean  to  deny  that 
there  is  anything  imposing  to  the  imagination 
in  power,  in  grandeur,  in  outward  show,  in  the 
accumulation  of  individual  wealth  and  luxury, 
at  the  expense  of  equal  justice  and  the  common 
weal  ?  Do  you  deny  that  there  is  anything  in 
the  "  Pride,  Pomp,  and  Circumstances  of  glori- 
ous war,  that  makes  ambition  virtue"  in  the 
eyes  of  admiring  multitudes?  Is  this  a  new 
theory  of  the  pleasures  of  the  imagination, 
which  says  that  the  pleasures  of  the  imagina- 
tion do  not  take  rise  solely  in  the  calculation  of 
the  understanding  ?  Is  it  a  paradox  of  my 
creating  that  "  one  murder  makes  a  villain,  mil- 
lions a  Hero  "  ?  or  is  it  not  true  that  here,  as  in 
other  cases,  the  enormity  of  the  evil  overpowers 
and  makes  a  convert  of  the  imagination  by  its 
very  magnitude  ?  You  contradict  my  reason- 
ing because  you  know  nothing  of  the  question, 
and  you  think  that  no  one  has  a  right  to  under- 
stand what  you  do  not.  My  offence  against 
purity  in  the  passage  alluded  to,  "which  con- 
tains the  concentrated  venom  of  my  malignity," 
is  that  I  have  admitted  that  there  are  tyrants 
and  slaves  abroad  in  the  world  ;  and  you  would 
hush  the  matter  up  and  pretend  that  there  is 
no  such  thing  in  order  that  there  may  be  no- 
thing else.  Further,  I  have  explained  the  cause, 
the  subtle  sophistry  of  the  human  mind,  that 
tolerates  and  pampers  the  evil  in  order  to  guard 
against  its  approaches ;  you  would  conceal  the 


cause  in  order  to  prevent  the  cure,  and  to  leave 
the  proud  flesh  about  the  heart  to  harden  and 
ossify  into  one  impenetrable  mass  of  selfishness 
and  hypocrisy,  that  we  may  not  "  sympathise  in 
the  distresses  of  suffering  virtue  "  in  any  case  in 
which  they  come  in  competition  with  the  ficti- 
tious wants  and  "imputed  weaknesses  of  the 
great."  You  ask,  "Are  we  gratified  by  the 
cruelties  of  Domitian  or  Nero  ?  "  No,  not  we  — 
they  were  too  petty  and  cowardly  to  strike  the 
imagination  at  a  distance  ;  but  the  Roman 
senate  tolerated  them,  addressed  their  perpe- 
trators, exalted  them  into  gods,  the  fathers  of 
the  people,  they  had  pimps  and  scribblers  of  all 
sorts  in  their  pay,  their  Senecas,  etc.,  till  a 
turbulent  rabble,  thinking  there  were  no  in- 
juries to  Society  greater  than  the  endurance  of 
unlimited  and  wanton  oppression,  put  an  end  to 
the  farce  and  abated  the  sin  as  well  as  they 
could.  Had  you  and  I  lived  in  those  times  we 
should  have  been  what  we  are  now,  I  "a  sour 
malcontent,"  and  you  "a  sweet  courtier."  ' 

The  manner  in  which  this  is  managed  : 
the  force  and  innate  power  with  which  it 
yeasts  and  works  up  itself  —  the  feeling  for 
the  costume  of  society  ;  is  in  a  style  of 
genius.  He  hath  a  demon,  as  he  himself 
says  of  Lord  Byron.  We  are  to  have  a 
party  this  evening.  The  Davenports  from 
Church  Row  —  I  don't  think  you  know 
anything  of  them  —  they  have  paid  me  a 
good  deal  of  attention.  I  like  Davenport 
himself.  The  names  of  the  rest  are  Miss 
Barnes,  Miss  Winter  with  the  Children. 

[Later,  March  17  or  18.] 
On  Monday  we  had  to  dinner  Severn 
and  Cawthorn,  the  Bookseller  and  print- 
virtuoso;  in  the  evening  Severn  went  home 
to  paint,  and  we  other  three  went  to  the 
play,  to  see  Shell's  new  tragedy  ycleped 
Evadne'.  In  the  morning  Severn  and  I 
took  a  turn  round  the  Museum  —  There  is 
a  Sphinx  there  of  a  giant  size,  and  most 
voluptuous  Egyptian  expression,  I  had  not 
seen  it  before.  The  play  was  bad  even  in 
comparison  with  1818,  the  Augustan  age  of 
the  Drama,  'comme  on  sait,'  as  Voltaire 
says  —  the  whole  was  made  up  of  a  virtu- 
ous young  woman,  an  indignant  brother,  a 
suspecting  lover,  a  libertine  prince,  a 


TO  GEORGE  AND  GEORGIANA  KEATS 


361 


tuitous  villain,  a  street  in  Naples,  a  Cypress 
grove,  lilies  and  roses,  virtue  and  vice,  a 
bloody  sword,  a  spangled  jacket,  one  Lady 
Olivia,  one  Miss  O'Neil  alias  Evadne',  alias 
Bellamira,  alias  —  Alias  —  Yea,  and  I  say 
unto  you  a  greater  than  Elias  —  There  was 
Abbot,  and  talking  of  Abbot  his  name  puts 
me  in  mind  of  a  spelling-book  lesson,  de- 
scriptive of  the  whole  Dramatis  persons  — 
Abbot  —  Abbess  —  Actor  —  Actress  —  The 
play  is  a,  fine  amusement,  as  a  friend  of 
mine  once  said  to  me  —  '  Do  what  you 
will,'  says  he,  'a  poor  gentleman  who 
wants  a  guinea,  cannot  spend  his  two  shil- 
lings better  than  at  the  playhouse.'  The 
pantomime  was  excellent,  I  had  seen  it  be- 
fore and  I  enjoyed  it  again.  Your  Mother 

and  I  had  some  talk  about  Miss  H. 

Says  I,  will  Henry  have  that  Miss ,  a 

lath  with  a  boddice,  she  who  has  been  fine 
drawn  —  fit  for  nothing  but  to  cut  up  into 
Cribbage  pins,  to  the  tune  of  B.  2;  one  who 
is  all  muslin  ;  all  feathers  and  bone  ;  once 
in  travelling  she  was  made  use  of  as  a  lynch 
pin;  I  hope  he  will  not  have  her,  though  it 
is  no  uncommon  thing  to  be  smitten  with  a 
staff;  though  she  might  be  very  useful  as 
his  walking-stick,  his  fishing-rod,  his  tooth- 
pik,  his  hat-stick  (she  runs  so  much  in  his 
head)  —  let  him  turn  farmer,  she  would 
cut  into  hurdles  ;  let  him  write  poetry,  she 
would  be  his  turn-style.  Her  gown  is  like 
a  flag  on  a  pole  ;  she  would  do  for  him  if 
he  turn  freemason  ;  I  hope  she  will  prove 
a  flag  of  truce  ;  when  she  sits  languishing 
with  her  one  foot  on  a  stool,  and  one  elbow 
on  the  table,  and  her  head  inclined,  she 
looks  like  the  sign  of  the  crooked  billet  — 
or  the  frontispiece  to  Cinderella,  or  a  tea- 
paper  wood-cut  of  Mother  Shipton  at  her 
studies  ;  she  is  a  make-believe  —  She  is 
bona  side  a  thin  young  'oman  —  But  this  is 
mere  talk  of  a  fellow-creature  ;  yet  pardie 
I  would  not  that  Henry  have  her  —  Non 
volo  ut  earn  possideat,  nam,  for,  it  would 
be  a  bam,  for  it  would  be  a  sham  — 

Don't  think  I  am  writing  a  petition  to 
the  Governors  of  St.  Luke  —  no,  that  would 


be  in  another  style.  May  it  please  your 
Worships  ;  forasmuch  as  the  undersigned 
has  committed,  transferred,  given  up,  made 
over,  consigned,  and  aberrated  himself,  to 
the  art  and  mystery  of  poetry  ;  forasmuch 
as  he  hath  cut,  rebuffed,  affronted,  huffed, 
and  shirked,  and  taken  stint  at,  all  other 
employments,  arts,  mysteries,  and  occupa- 
tions, honest,  middling,  and  dishonest;  for- 
asmuch as  he  hath  at  sundry  times  and  in 
divers  places,  told  truth  unto  the  men  of 
this  generation,  and  eke  to  the  women  ; 
moreover,  forasmuch  as  he  hath  kept  a 
pair  of  boots  that  did  not  fit,  and  doth 
not  admire  Shell's  play,  Leigh  Hunt,  Tom 
Moore,  Bob  Southey,  and  Mr.  Rogers;  and 
does  admire  Wm.  Hazlitt  ;  moreoverer  for 
as  more  as  he  liketh  half  of  Wordsworth, 
and  none  of  Crabbe  ;  moreover-est  for  as 
most  as  he  hath  written  this  page  of  pen- 
manship—  he  prayeth  your  Worships  to 
give  him  a  lodging  — Witnessed  by  Rd. 
Abbey  and  Co.,  cum  familiaribus  et  con- 
sanguineis  (signed)  Count  de  Cockaigne. 

The  nothing  of  the  day  is  a  machine 
called  the  velocipede.  It  is  a  wheel  carriage 
to  ride  cock-horse  upon,  sitting  astride  and 
pushing  it  along  with  the  toes,  a  rudder 
wheel  in  hand  —  they  will  go  seven  miles 
an  hour  —  A  handsome  gelding  will  come 
to  eight  guineas  ;  however  they  will  soon 
be  cheaper,  unless  the  army  takes  to  them. 
I  look  back  upon  the  last  month,  I  find 
nothing  to  write  about ;  indeed  I  do  not 
recollect  anything  particular  in  it.  It 's  all 
alike  ;  we  keep  on  breathing.  The  only 
amusement  is  a  little  scandal,  of  however 
fine  a  shape,  a  laugh  at  a  pun  —  and  then 
after  all  we  wonder  how  we  could  enjoy 
the  scandal,  or  laugh  at  the  pun. 

I  have  been  at  different  times  turning  it 
in  my  head  whether  I  should  go  to  Edin- 
burgh and  study  for  a  physician  ;  I  am 
afraid  I  should  not  take  kindly  to  it ;  I  am 
sure  I  could  not  take  fees  —  and  yet  I 
should  like  to  do  so ;  it 's  not  worse  than 
writing  poems,  and  hanging  them  up  to  be 
fly-blown  on  the  Review  shambles.  Every 


362 


LETTERS    OF   JOHN   KEATS 


body  is  in  his  own  mess.  Here  is  the  par- 
son at  Hampstead  quarrelling  with  all  the 
world,  he  is  in  the  wrong  by  this  same 
token  ;  when  the  black  cloth  was  put  up  in 
the  Church  for  the  Queen's  mourning,  he 
asked  the  workmen  to  hang  it  the  wrong 
side  outwards,  that  it  might  be  better  when 
taken  down,  it  being  his  perquisite  —  Par- 
sons will  always  keep  up  their  character, 
but  as  it  is  said  there  are  some  animals  the 
ancients  knew  which  we  do  not,  let  us  hope 
our  posterity  will  miss  the  black  badger 
with  tri-cornered  hat;  Who  knows  but  some 
Reviewer  of  Buffon  or  Pliny  may  put  an 
account  of  the  parson  in  the  Appendix  ; 
No  one  will  then  believe  it  any  more  than 
we  believe  in4  the  Pho3nix.  I  think  we  may 
class  the  lawyer  in  the  same  natural  history 
of  Monsters;  a  green  bag  will  hold  as  much 
as  a  lawn  sleeve.  The  only  difference  is 
that  one  is  fustian  and  the  other  flimsy  ;  I 
am  not  unwilling  to  read  Church  history  at 
present  and  have  Milner's  in  my  eye;  his  is 
reckoned  a  very  good  one. 

[18th  September  1819.] 
In  looking  over  some  of  my  papers  I 
found  the  above  specimen  of  my  careless- 
ness. It  is  a  sheet  you  ought  to  have  had 
long  ago  —  my  letter  must  have  appeared 
very  unconnected,  but  as  I  number  the 
sheets  you  must  have  discovered  how  the 
mistake  happened.  How  many  things  have 
happened  since  I  wrote  it  —  How  have  I 
acted  contrary  to  my  resolves.  The  inter- 
val between  writing  this  sheet  and  the 
day  I  put  this  supplement  to  it,  has  been 
completely  filled  with  generous  and  most 
friendly  actions  of  Brown  towards  me. 
How  frequently  I  forget  to  speak  of  things 
which  I  think  of  and  feel  most.  'T  is  very 
singular,  the  idea  about  Buffon  above  has 
been  taken  up  by  Hunt  in  the  Examiner,  in 
some  papers  which  he  calls  *A  Preter- 
natural History,' 

Friday  19th  March. 

This  morning  I  have  been  reading  *  the 
False   One.'      Shameful   to  say,  I  was  in 


bed  at  ten  —  I  mean  this  morning.  The 
Blackwood  Reviewers  have  committed 
themselves  in  a  scandalous  heresy  —  they 
have  been  putting  up  Hogg,  the  Ettrick 
Shepherd,  against  Burns  :  the  senseless  vil- 
lains !  The  Scotch  cannot  manage  them- 
selves at  all,  they  want  imagination,  and 
that  is  why  they  are  so  fond  of  Hogg,  who 
has  a  little  of  it.  This  morning  I  am  in  a 
sort  of  temper,,  indolent  and  supremely 
careless  —  I  long  after  a  Stanza  or  two  of 
Thomson's  Castle  of  Indolence  —  my  pas- 
sions are  all  asleep,  from  my  having  slum- 
bered till  nearly  eleven,  and  weakened  the 
animal  fibre  all  over  me,  to  a  delightful 
sensation,  about  three  degrees  on  this  side 
of  faintness.  If  I  had  teeth  of  pearl  and 
the  breath  of  lilies  I  should  call  it  languor, 
but  as  I  am  *I  must  call  it  laziness.  In 
this  state  of  effeminacy  the  fibres  of  the 
brain  are  relaxed  in  common  with  the  rest 
of  the  body,  and  to  such  a  happy  degree 
that  pleasure  has  no  show  of  enticement 
and  pain  no  unbearable  power.  Neither 
Poetry,  nor  Ambition,  nor  Love  have  any 
alertness  of  countenance  as  they  pass  by 
me  ;  they  seem  rather  like  figures  on  a 
Greek  vase  —  a  Man  and  two  women  whom 
no  one  but  myself  could  distinguish  in  their 
disguisement.  This  is  the  only  happiness, 
and  is  a  rare  instance  of  the  advantage  of 
the  body  overpowering  the  Mind.  I  have 
this  moment  received  a  note  from  Haslam, 
in  which  he  expects  the  death  of  his  Father, 
who  has  been  for  some  time  in  a  state  of 
insensibility  ;  his  mother  bears  up  he  says 
very  well  —  I  shall  go  to  town  to-morrow 
to  see  him.  This  is  the  world  —  thus  we 
cannot  expect  to  give  way  many  hours  to 
pleasure.  Circumstances  are  like  Clouds 
continually  gathering  and  bursting  — While 
we  are  laughing,  the  seed  of  some  trouble 
is  put  into  the  wide  arable  land  of  events 
—  while  we  are  laughing  it  sprouts  it  grows 
and  suddenly  bears  a  poison  fruit  which  we 
must  pluck.  Even  so  we  have  leisure  to 
reason  on  the  misfortunes  of  our  friends  ; 
*  Especially  as  I  have  a  black  eye. 


TO  GEORGE  AND  GEORGIANA  KEATS 


363 


our  own  touch  us  too  nearly  for  words.  Very 
few  men  have  ever  arrived  at  a  complete 
disinterestedness  of  Mind  :  very  few  have 
been  influenced  by  a  pure  desire  of  the 
benefit  of  others,  —  in  the  greater  part  of 
the  Benefactors  to  Humanity  some  mere- 
tricious motive  has  sullied  their  greatness 

—  some   melodramatic  scenery  has   fasci- 
nated them.     From  the  manner  in  which  I 
feel  Haslam's  misfortune  I  perceive  how 
far  I  am  from  any  humble  standard  of  dis- 
interestedness.    Yet  this  feeling  ought  to 
be  carried  to  its  highest  pitch,  as  there  is 
no  fear  of  its  ever  injuring  society  —  which 
it  would  do,  I  fear,  pushed  to  an  extremity. 
For  in  wild  nature  the  Hawk  would  lose 
his  Breakfast  of  Robins  and  the  Robin  his 
of  Worms  —  The  Lion  must  starve  as  well 
as  the  swallow.     The  greater  part  of  Men 
make  their  way  with  the  same  instinctive- 
ness,  the  same  unwandering  eye  from  their 
purposes,  the  same  animal  eagerness  as  the 
Hawk.     The  Hawk  wants  a  Mate,  so  does 
the   Man  —  look  at   them   both,  they  set 
about  it  and  procure  one  in  the  same  man- 
ner.    They  want  both  a  nest  and  they  both 
set  about  one  in  the  same  manner  —  they 
get  their  food  in  the  same  manner.     The 
noble    animal   Man    for    his     amusement 
smokes  his  pipe — the  Hawk  balances  about 
the  Clouds  —  that  is  the  only  difference  of 
their  leisures.     This  it  is  that  makes  the 
Amusement  of  Life — to  a  speculative  Mind 

—  I   go  among   the   Fields   and   catch   a 
glimpse  of  a  Stoat  or  a  fieldmouse  peeping 
out  of  the  withered  grass  —  the  creature 
hath  a  purpose,  and   its   eyes   are   bright 
with  it.     I  go  amongst  the  buildings  of  a 
city  and  I  see  a  Man  hurrying  along  —  to 
what  ?  the  Creature  has  a  purpose  and  his 
eyes   are    bright    with   it.      But    then,   as 
Wordsworth   says,   '  we   have  all   one  hu- 
man heart '     There  is  an  electric  fire 

in  human  nature   tending  to  purify  —  so 
that  among  these  human  creatures  there  is 
continually  some  birth  of  new  heroism.  The 
pity  is  that  we  must  wonder  at  it,  as  we 
should  at  finding  a  pearl  in  rubbish.    I  have 


no  doubt  that  thousands  of  people  never 
heard  of  have  had  hearts  completely  disin- 
terested :  I  can  remember  but  two —  So- 
crates and  Jesus  —  Their  histories  evince 
it.  What  I  heard  a  little  time  ago,  Taylor 
observe  with  respect  to  Socrates,  may  be 
said  of  Jesus  —  That  he  was  so  great  a 
man  that  though  he  transmitted  no  writing 
of  his  own  to  posterity,  we  have  his  Mind 
and  his  sayings  and  his  greatness  handed 
to  us  by  others.  It  is  to  be  lamented  that 
the  history  of  the  latter  was  written  and 
revised  by  Men  interested  in  the  pious 
frauds  of  Religion.  Yet  through  all  this  I 
see  his  splendour.  Even  here,  though  I 
myself  am  pursuing  the  same  instinctive 
course  as  the  veriest  human  animal  you  can 
think  of,  I  am,  however  young,  writing 
at  random,  straining  at  particles  of  light 
in  the  midst  of  a  great  darkness,  without 
knowing  the  bearing  of  any  one  assertion, 
of  any  one  opinion.  Yet  may  I  not  in  this 
be  free  from  sin  ?  May  there  not  be  su- 
perior beings  amused  with  any  graceful, 
though  instinctive,  attitude  my  mind  may 
fall  into  as  I  am  entertained  with  the 
alertness  of  a  Stoat  or  the  anxiety  of  a 
Deer  ?  Though  a  quarrel  in  the  Streets  is 
a  thing  to  be  hated,  the  energies  displayed 
in  it  are  fine  ;  the  commonest  Man  shows  a 
grace  in  his  quarrel.  By  a  superior  Being 
our  reasonings  may  take  the  same  tone  — 
though  erroneous  they  may  be  fine.  This 
is  the  very  thing  in  which  consists  Poetry, 
and  if  so  it  is  not  so  fine  a  thing  as  philoso- 
phy—  For  the  same  reason  that  an  eagle  is 
not  so  fine  a  thing  as  a  truth.  Give  me 
this  credit  —  Do  you  not  think  I  strive  — 
to  know  myself  ?  Give  me  this  credit,  and 
you  will  not  think  that  on  my  own  account 
I  repeat  Milton's  lines  — 

4  How  charming  is  divine  Philosophy, 
Not  harsh  and  crabbed,  as  dull  fools  suppose. 
But  musical  as  is  Apollo's  lute.' 

No  —  not  for  myself  —  feeling  grateful  as 
I  do  to  have  got  into  a  state  of  mind  to 
relish  them  properly.  Nothing  eyer  be- 


LETTERS   OF   JOHN    KEATS 


comes  real  till  it  is  experienced  —  Even  a 
Proverb  is  no  proverb  to  you  till  your  Life 
has  illustrated  it.  I  am  ever  afraid  that 
your  anxiety  for  me  will  lead  you  to  fear 
for  the  violence  of  my  temperament  con- 
tinually smothered  down  :  for  that  reason 
I  did  not  intend  to  have  sent  you  the  fol- 
lowing sonnet  —  but  look  over  the  two  last 
pages  and  ask  yourselves  whether  I  have 
not  that  in  me  which  will  bear  the  buffets 
of  the  world.  It  will  be  the  best  comment 
on  my  sonnet ;  it  will  show  you  that  it 
was  written  with  no  Agony  but  that  of 
ignorance  ;  with  no  thirst  of  anything  but 
Knowledge  when  pushed  to  the  point 
though  the  first  steps  to  it  were  through 
my  human  passions  —  they  went  away  and 
I  wrote  with  my  Mind  —  and  perhaps  I 
must  confess  a  little  bit  of  my  heart  — 

['  Why  did  I  laugh  to-night  ?  No  voice  will 
tell,'  p.  137.] 

I  went  to  bed  and  enjoyed  an  uninterrupted 
sleep.  Sane  I  went  to  bed  and  sane  I 
arose. 

[April  15.] 

This  is  the  15th  of  April  —  you  see  what  a 
time  it  is  since  I  wrote  ;  all  that  time  I  have 
been  day  by  day  expecting  Letters  from  you. 
I  write  quite  in  the  dark.  In  the  hopes  of 
a  Letter  daily  I  have  deferred  that  I  might 
write  in  the  light.  I  was  in  town  yester- 
day, and  at  Taylor's  heard  that  young 
Birkbeck  had  been  in  Town  and  was  to  set 
forward  in  six  or  seven  days  —  so  I  shall 
dedicate  that  time  to  making  up  this  parcel 
ready  for  him.  I  wish  I  could  hear  from 
you  to  make  me  '  whole  and  general  as  the 
casing  air.'  A  few  days  after  the  19th  of 
April,  [sic.  accurately,  March],  I  received 
a  note  from  Haslam  containing  the  news  of 
his  father's  death.  The  Family  has  all 
been  well.  Haslam  has  his  father's  situa- 
tion. The  Framptons  have  behaved  well 
to  him.  The  day  before  yesterday  I  went 
to  a  rout  at  Sawrey's —  it  was  made  plea- 
sant by  Reynolds  being  there  and  our  get- 
ting into  conversation  with  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  Girls  I  ever  saw  —  She  gave  a 


remarkable  prettiness  to  all  those  common- 
places which  most  women  who  talk  must 
utter  —  I  liked  Mrs.  Sawrey  very  well. 
The  Sunday  before  last  your  Brothers  were 
to  come  by  a  long  invitation  —  so  long  that 
for  the  time  I  forgot  it  when  I  promised 
Mrs.  Brawne  to  dine  with  her  on  the  same 
day.  On  recollecting  my  engagement  with 
your  Brothers  I  immediately  excused  my- 
self with  Mrs  Brawne,  but  she  would  not 
hear  of  it,  and  insisted  on  my  bringing  my 
friends  with  me.  So  we  all  dined  at  Mrs. 
Brawne's.  I  have  been  to  Mrs.  Bentley's 
this  morning,  and  put  all  the  letters  to  and 
from  you  and  poor  Tom  and  me.  I  found 
some  of  the  correspondence  between  him 
and  that  degraded  Wells  and  Amena.  It 
is  a  wretched  business  ;  I  do  not  know  the 
rights  of  it,  but  what  I  do  know  would, 
I  am  sure,  affect  you  so  much  that  I  am 
in  two  minds  whether  I  will  tell  you  any- 
thing about  it.  And  yet  I  do  not  see  why 

—  for  anything,  though   it  be  unpleasant, 
that  calls  to  mind  those  we  still  love  has  a 
compensation  in  itself  for  the  pain  it  oc- 
casions—  so  very  likely  to-morrow  I  may 
set  about  copying  the  whole  of  what  I  have 
about   it:  with   no   sort  of  a   Richardson 
self-satisfaction  —  I  hate  it  to  a   sickness 

—  and  I  am  afraid  more  from  indolence  of 
mind  than  anything  else.     I  wonder  how 
people  exist  with  all  their  worries.     I  have 
not  been  to  Westminster  but  once  lately, 
and  that  was  to  see  Dilke  in  his  new  Lodg- 
ings —  I  think  of  living  somewhere  in  the 
neighbourhood  myself.     Your  mother  was 
well  by  your   Brothers'   account.     I  shall 
see  her  perhaps  to-morrow  —  yes  I  shall. 
We  have  had  the  Boys  here  lately  —  they 
make  a  bit   of  a  racket  —  I  shall  not  be 
sorry   when  they   go.     I  found   also   this 
morning,  in  a  note  from  George  to  you  and 
my  dear  sister  a  lock  of  your  hair  which  I 
shall  this  moment  put  in  the  miniature  case. 
A   few   days   ago    Hunt   dined    here   and 
Brown   invited    Davenport   to    meet   him, 
Davenport    from    a    sense     of    weakness 
thought  it  incumbent  on  him  to  show  off  — 


TO  GEORGE  AND  GEORGIANA  KEATS 


365 


and  pursuant  to  that  never  ceased  talking 
and  boring  all  day  till  I  was  completely 
fagged  out.  Brown  grew  melancholy  — 
but  Hunt  perceiving  what  a  complimentary 
tendency  all  this  had  bore  it  remarkably 
well  —  Brown  grumbled  about  it  for  two 
or  three  days.  I  went  with  Hunt  to  Sir 
John  Leicester's  gallery  ;  there  I  saw 
Northcote  —  Hilton  —  Bewick,  and  many 
more  of  great  and  Little  note.  Haydon's 
picture  is  of  very  little  progress  this  year 

—  He   talks  about  finishing  it  next   year. 
Wordsworth   is  going  to  publish  a   Poem 
called  Peter  Bell  —  what   a  perverse  fel- 
low it  is  !     Why  will  he  talk  about  Peter 
Bells  —  I    was    told     not    to    tell  —  but 
to    you    it    will    not    be    telling  —  Rey- 
nolds  hearing   that   said   Peter   Bell  was 
coming  out,  took  it  into  his  head  to  write 
a  skit  upon  it  called  Peter  Bell.     He  did  it 
as  soon  as  thought  on,  it  is  to  be  published 
this  morning,   and   comes   out  before  the 
real  Peter  Bell,  with  this  admirable  motto 
from  the  'Bold  Stroke  for  a  Wife'  'I  am 
the  real  Simon  Pure.'     It  would   be  just 
as  well  to  trounce  Lord  Byron  in  the  same 
manner.     I  am  still  at  a  stand  in  versify- 
ing —  I  cannot  do  it  yet  with  any  pleasure 

—  I  mean,  however,  to  look  round  on  my 
resources  and  means,  and  see  what  I  can 
do  without  poetry  —  To  that   end  I  shall 
live  in  Westminster  —  I  have  no  doubt  of 
making  by  some  means  a  little  to  help  on,  or 
I  shall  be  left  in  the  Lurch  —  with  the  bur- 
den of  a  little  Pride  —  However  I  look  in 
time.     The  Dilkes  like  their  Lodgings  at 
Westminster  tolerably  well.     I  cannot  help 
thinking  what  a  shame  it  is  that  poor  Dilke 
should  give  up  his  comfortable  house  and 
garden  for  his  Son,  whom  he  will  certainly 
ruin   with  too  much    care.     The   boy   has 
nothing  in  his  ears  all  day  but  himself  and 
the  importance  of  his  education.     Dilke  has 
continually  in  his  mouth  *  My  Boy.'    This  is 
what  spoils  princes  :  it  may  have  the  same 
effect  with  Commoners.     Mrs.   Dilke  has 
been  very  well  lately  —  But  what  a  shame- 
ful thing  it  is  that  for  that  obstinate  Boy 


Dilke  should  •  stifle  himself  in  Town  Lodg- 
ings and  wear  out  his  Life  by  his  continual 
apprehension  of  his  Boy's  fate  in  West- 
minster school,  with  the  rest  of  the  Boys 
and  the  Masters.  Every  one  has  some 
wear  and  tear.  One  would  think  Dilke 
ought  to  be  quiet  and  happy  —  but  no  — 
this  one  Boy  makes  his  face  pale,  his  society 
silent  and  his  vigilance  jealous  —  He  would 
I  have  no  doubt  quarrel  with  any  one  who 
snubb'd  his  Boy  —  With  all  this  he  has  no 
notion  how  to  manage  him.  O  what  a 
farce  is  our  greatest  cares  !  Yet  one  must 
be  in  the  pother  for  the  sake  of  Clothes 
food  and  Lodging.  There  has  been  a 
squabble  between  Kean  and  Mr.  Bucke  — 
There  are  faults  on  both  sides  —  on  Bucke's 
the  faults  are  positive  to  the  Question  : 
Kean's  fault  is  a  want  of  genteel  know- 
ledge and  high  Policy.  The  former  writes 
knavishly  foolish,  and  the  other  silly  bom- 
bast. It  was  about  a  Tragedy  written  by 
said  Mr.  Bucke  which,  it  appears,  Mr. 
Kean  kick'd  at  —  it  was  so  bad  —  After 
a  little  struggle  of  Mr.  Bucke's  against 
Kean,  Drury  Lane  had  the  Policy  to  bring 
it  out  and  Kean  the  impolicy  not  to  appear 
in  it.  It  was  damn'd.  The  people  in  the 
Pit  had  a  favourite  call  on  the  night  of 
'Buck,  Buck,  rise  up'  and  'Buck,  Buck, 
how  many  horns  do  I  hold  up.'  Kotzebue 
the  German  Dramatist  and  traitor  to  his 
country  was  murdered  lately  by  a  young 
student  whose  name  I  forget  —  he  stabbed 
himself  immediately  after  crying  out  Ger- 
many !  Germany  !  I  was  unfortunate  to 
miss  Richards  the  only  time  I  have  been 
for  many  months  to  see  him. 

Shall  I   treat  you   with  a  little  extem- 
pore ?  — 

['When  they  were   come  into  the  Faery's 
Court,'  p.  249.] 

Brown  is  gone  to  bed  —  and  I  am  tired 
of  rhyming  —  there  is  a  north  wind  blow- 
ing playing  young  gooseberry  with  the 
trees  —  I  don't  care  so  it  helps  even  with  a 
side  wind  a  Letter  to  me  —  for  I  cannot 
put  faith  in  any  reports  I  hear  of  the  Settle- 


366 


LETTERS   OF   JOHN    KEATS 


ment ;  some  are  good  and  some  bad.  Last 
Sunday  I  took  a  Walk  towards  Highgate 
and  in  the  lane  that  winds  by  the  side  of 
Lord  Mansfield's  park  I  met  Mr.  Green 
our  Demonstrator  at  Guy's  in  conversation 
with  Coleridge  —  I  joined  them,  after  en- 
quiring by  a  look  whether  it  would  be 
agreeable  —  I  walked  with  him  at  his 
alderman-after-dinner  pace  for  near  two 
miles  I  suppose.  In  those  two  Miles 
he  broached  a  thousand  things  —  let  me 
see  if  I  can  give  you  a  list  —  Nightingales 

—  Poetry  —  on  Poetical  Sensation  —  Meta- 
physics —  Different  genera  and  species  of 
Dreams  —  Nightmare  —  a   dream   accom- 
panied  by  a  sense  of  touch  —  single   and 
double   touch  —  a    dream   related  —  First 
and  second  consciousness  —  the  difference 
explained  between  will  and  Volition  —  so 
say  metaphysicians  from  a  want  of  smoking 
the  second  consciousness  —  Monsters  —  the 
Kraken  —  Mermaids  —  Southey  believes  in 
them  —  Southey's  belief  too  much  diluted 

—  a    Ghost    story  —  Good    morning  —  I 
heard  his  voice  as  he  came  towards  me  —  I 
heard  it  as  he  moved  away  —  I  had  heard 
it  all  the  interval  —  if  it  may  be  called  so. 
He  was  civil  enough  to  ask  me  to  call  on 
him  at  Highgate.     Good-night  ! 

[Later,  April  16  or  17.] 
It  looks  so  much  like  rain  I  shall  not  go 
to  town  to-day :  but  put  it  off  till  to-morrow. 
Brown  this  morning  is  writing  some  Spen- 
serian stanzas  against  Mrs.,  Miss  Brawne 
and  me  ;  so  I  shall  amuse  myself  with  him 
a  little  :  in  the  manner  of  Spenser — 

['  He  is  to  weet  a  melancholy  Carle,'  p.  250.] 
This  character  would  ensure  him  a  situa- 
tion in  the  establishment  of  patient  Gri- 
selda.  The  servant  has  come  for  the  little 
Browns  this  morning  —  they  have  been  a 
toothache  to  me  which  I  sha-11  enjoy  the 
riddance  of  —  Their  little  voices  are  like 
wasps'  stings  —  Sometimes  am  I  all  wound 
with  Browns.49  We  had  a  claret  feast 
some  little  while  ago.  There  were  Dilke, 
Reynolds,  Skinner,  Mancur,  John  Brown, 


Martin,  Brown  and  I.  We  all  got  a  little 
tipsy  —  but  pleasantly  so  —  I  enjoy  Claret 
to  a  degree. 

[Later,  April  18  or  19.] 
I  have  been  looking  over  the  correspond- 
ence of  the  pretended  Amena  and  Wells 
this  evening  —  I  now  see  the  whole  cruel 
deception.  I  think  Wells  must  have  had 
an  accomplice  in  it  —  Amelia's  letters  are 
in  a  Man's  language  and  in  a  Man's  hand 
imitating  a  woman's.  The  instigations  to 
this  diabolical  scheme  were  vanity,  and 
the  love  of  intrigue.  It  was  no  thoughtless 
hoax  —  but  a  cruel  deception  on  a  sanguine 
Temperament,  with  every  show  of  friend- 
ship. I  do  not  think  death  too  bad  for  the 
villain.  The  world  would  look  upon  it  in 
a  different  light  should  I  expose  it  —  they 
would  call  it  a  frolic  —  so  I  must  be  wary 
—  but  I  consider  it  my  duty  to  be  prudently 
revengeful.  I  will  hang  over  his  head  like 
a  sword  by  a  hair.  I  will  be  opium  to  his 
vanity  —  if  I  cannot  injure  his  interests  — 
He  is  a  rat  and  he  shall  have  ratsbane  to 
his  vanity  —  I  will  harm  him  all  I  possibly 
can  —  I  have  no  doubt  I  shall  be  able  to  do 
so  —  Let  us  leave  him  to  his  misery  alone, 
except  when  we  can  throw  in  a  little  more. 
The  fifth  canto  of  Dante  pleases  me  more 
and  more  —  it  is  that  one  in  which  he  meets 
with  Paolo  and  Francesca.  I  had  passed 
many  days  in  rather  a  low  state  of  mind, 
and  in  the  midst  of  them  I  dreamt  of  being 
in  that  region  of  Hell.  The  dream  was 
one  of  the  most  delightful  enjoyments  I 
ever  had  in  my  life.  I  floated  about  the 
whirling  atmosphere,  as  it  is  described,  with 
a  beautiful  figure,  to  whose  lips  mine  were 
joined  as  it  seemed  for  an  age  —  and  in 
the  midst  of  all  this  cold  and  darkness  I 
was  warm  —  even  flowery  tree-tops  sprung 
up,  and  we  rested  on  them,  sometimes 
with  the  lightness  of  a  cloud,  till  the  wind 
blew  us  away  again.  I  tried  a  sonnet  upon 
it  —  there  are  fourteen  lines,  but  nothing 
of  what  I  felt  in  it  —  O  that  I  could  dream 
it  every  night  — 


TO   GEORGE  AND   GEORGIANA   KEATS 


367 


['  As  Hermes  once  took  to  his  feathers  light,' 
p.  138.] 

I  want  very  very  much  a  little  of  your 
wit,  my  dear  Sister  —  a  Letter  or  two  of 
yours  just  to  bandy  back  a  pun  or  two 
across  the  Atlantic,  and  send  a  quibble 
over  the  Floridas.  Now  you  have  by  this 
time  crumpled  up  your  large  Bonnet,  what 
do  you  wear  —  a  cap  ?  do  you  put  your 
hair  in  papers  of  a  night  ?  do  you  pay  the 
Miss  Birkbecks  a  morning  visit  —  have  you 
any  tea  ?  or  do  you  milk-and-water  with 
them  —  What  place  of  Worship  do  you  go 
to  —  the  Quakers,  the  Moravians,  the  Uni- 
tarians, or  the  Methodists  ?  Are  there  any 
flowers  in  bloom  you  like  —  any  beautiful 
heaths  —  any  streets  full  of  Corset  Makers  ? 
What  sort  of  shoes  have  you  to  fit  those 
pretty  feet  of  yours  ?  Do  you  desire 
Compliments  to  one  another  ?  Do  you  ride 
on  Horseback?  What  do  you  have  for 
breakfast,  dinner,  and  supper?  without 
mentioning  lunch  and  bever  [a  bite  be- 
tween meals]  and  wet  and  snack  —  and  a 
bit  to  stay  one's  stomach  ?  Do  you  get 
any  Spirits  —  now  you  might  easily  distill 
some  whiskey  —  and  going  into  the  woods, 
set  up  a  whiskey  shop  for  the  Monkeys  — 
Do  you  and  the  Miss  Birkbecks  get  groggy 
on  anything  —  a  little  so-soish  so  as  to  be 
obliged  to  be  seen  home  with  a  Lantern  ? 
You  may  perhaps  have^  a  game  at  puss  in 
the  corner  —  Ladies  are  warranted  to  play 
at  this  game  though  they  have  not  whiskers. 
Have  you  a  fiddle  in  the  Settlement  —  or 
at  any  rate  a  Jew's  harp  —  which  will  play 
in  spite  of  one's  teeth  —  When  you  have 
nothing  else  to  do  for  a  whole  day  I  tell 
you  how  you  may  employ  it  —  First  get  up 
and  when  you  are  dressed,  as  it  would  be 
pretty  early  with  a  high  wind  in  the  woods, 
give  George  a  cold  Pig  with  my  Compli- 
ments. Then  you  may  saunter  into  the 
nearest  coffee-house,  and  after  taking  a 
dram  and  a  look  at  the  Chronicle  —  go  and 
frighten  the  wild  fcoars  upon  the  strength 
—  you  may  as  well  bring  one  home  for 
breakfast,  serving  up  the  hoofs  garnished 


with  bristles  and  a  grunt  or  two  to  accom- 
pany the  singing  of  the  kettle  —  then  if 
George  is  not  up  give  him  a  colder  Pig 
always  with  my  Compliments  —  When  you 
are  both  set  down  to  breakfast  I  advise 
you  to  eat  your  full  share,  but  leave  off 
immediately  on  feeling  yourself  inclined  to 
anything  on  the  other  side  of  the  puffy  — 
avoid  that,  for  it  does  not  become  young 
women  — After  you  have  eaten  your  break- 
fast keep  your  eye  upon  dinner  —  it  is  the 
safest  way  —  You  should  keep  a  Hawk's 
eye  over  your  dinner  and  keep  hovering 
over  it  till  due  time  then  pounce  taking 
care  not  to  break  any  plates.  While  you 
are  hovering  with  your  dinner  in  pro- 
spect you  may  do  a  thousand  things  —  put  a 
hedgehog  into  George's  hat  —  pour  a  little 
water  into  his  rifle  —  soak  his  boots  in  a  pail 
of  water  —  cut  his  jacket  round  into  shreds- 
like  a  Roman  kilt  or  the  back  of  my  grand- 
mother's stays  —  Sew  off  his  buttons  — 

[Later,  April  21  or  22.] 
Yesterday  I  could  not  write  a  line  I  was 
so  fatigued,  for  the  day  before  I  went  to 
town  in  the  morning,  called  on  your  Motherr 
and  returned  in  time  for  a  few  friends  we 
had  to  dinner.  These  were  Taylor,  Wood- 
house,  Reynolds  :  we  began  cards  at  about 
9  o'clock,  and  the  night  coming  on,  and 
continuing  dark  and  rainy,  they  could  not 
think  of  returning  to  town  —  So  we  played 
at  Cards  till  very  daylight  —  and  yesterday 
I  was  not  worth  a  sixpence.  Your  Mother 
was  very  well  but  anxious  for  a  Letter.  We 
had  half  an  hour's  talk  and  no  more,  for  I 
was  obliged  to  be  home.  Mrs.  and  Miss 
Millar  were  well,  and  so  was  Miss  Walde- 
grave.  I  have  asked  your  Brothers  here 
for  next  Sunday.  When  Reynolds  was 
here  on  Monday  he  asked  me  to  give  Hunt  a 
hint  to  take  notice  of  his  Peter  Bell  in  the 
Examiner  —  the  best  thing  I  can  do  is  to 
write  a  little  notice  of  it  myself,  which  I 
will  do  here,  and  copy  out  if  it  should  suit 
my  Purpose  — 

Peter  Bell.     There  have  been  lately  ad- 


368 


LETTERS  OF  JOHN   KEATS 


vertised  two  Books  both  Peter  Bell  by 
name  ;  what  stuff  the  one  was  made  of 
might  be  seen  by  the  motto  — '  I  am  the 
real  Simon  Pure.'  This  false  Florimel  has 
hurried  from  the  press  and  obtruded  herself 
into  public  notice,  while  for  aught  we  know 
the  real  one  may  be  still  wandering  about 
the  woods  and  mountains.  Let  us  hope 
she  may  soon  appear  and  make  good  her 
right  to  the  magic  girdle.  The  Pamphle- 
teering Archimage,  we  can  perceive,  has 
rather  a  splenetic  love  than  a  downright 
hatred  to  real  Florimels  —  if  indeed  they 
had  been  so  christened  —  or  had  even  a 
pretention  to  play  at  bob  cherry  with  Bar- 
bara Lewthwaite  :  but  he  has  a  fixed 
aversion  to  those  three  rhyming  Graces 
Alice  Fell,  Susan  Gale  and  Betty  Foy  ;  and 
now  at  length  especially  to  Peter  Bell  — 
fit  Apollo.  It  may  be  seen  from  one  or 
two  Passages  in  this  little  skit,  that  the 
writer  of  it  has  felt  the  finer  parts  of  Mr. 
Wordsworth,  and  perhaps  expatiated  with 
his  more  remote  and  sublimer  muse.  This 
as  far  as  it  relates  to  Peter  Bell  is  unlucky. 
The  more  he  may  love  the  sad  embroidery 
of  the  Excursion,  the  more  he  will  hate  the 
coarse  Samplers  of  Betty  Foy  and  Alice 
Fell  ;  and  as  they  come  from  the  same  hand, 
the  better  will  he  be  able  to  imitate  that 
which  can  be  imitated,  to  wit  Peter  Bell  — 
as  far  as  can  be  imagined  from  the  obsti- 
nate Name.  We  repeat,  it  is  very  unlucky 
—  this  real  Simon  Pure  is  in  parts  the  very 
Man  —  there  is  a  pernicious  likeness  in  the 
scenery,  a  '  pestilent  humour '  in  the 
rhymes,  and  an  inveterate  cadence  in  some 
of  the  Stanzas,  that  must  be  lamented.  If 
we  are  one  part  amused  with  this  we  are 
three  parts  sorry  that  an  appreciator  of 
Wordsworth  should  show  so  much  temper 
at  this  really  provoking  name  of  Peter 
Bell—! 

This  will  do  well  enough  —  I  have  copied 
it  and  enclosed  it  to  Hunt.  You  will  call 
it  a  little  politic  —  seeing  I  keep  clear  of 
all  parties.  I  say  something  for  and  against 
both  parties  —  and  suit  it  to  the  tune  of  the 


Examiner  —  I  meant  to  say  I  do  not  unsuit 
it  —  and  I  believe  I  think  what  I  say,  nay 
I  am  sure  I  do  —  I  and  my  conscience  are 
in  luck  to-day  —  which  is  an  excellent 
thing.  The  other  night  I  went  to  the  Play 
with  Rice,  Reynolds,  and  Martin  —  we  saw 
a  new  dull  and  half-damn'd  opera  call'd 
the  *  Heart  of  Midlothian,'  that  was  on 
Saturday  —  I  stopt  at  Taylor's  on  Sunday 
with  Woodhouse  —  and  passed  a  quiet  sort 
of  pleasant  day.  I  have  been  very  much 
pleased  with  the  Panorama  of  the  Ship  at 
the  North  Pole  —  with  the  icebergs,  the 
Mountains,  the  Bears,  the  Wolves  —  the 
seals,  the  Penguins  —  and  a  large  whale 
floating  back  above  water  —  it  is  impossible 
to  describe  the  place  — 

Wednesday  Evening  [April  28]. 
[Here  follows  the  poem  for  which  see  p.  139. 
The  eighth  stanza  reads  : 

She  took  me  to  her  elfin  grot 

And  there  she  wept  and  sigh'd  full  sore, 
And  there  I  shut  her  wild,  wild  eyes 
With  kisses  four—] 

Why  four  kisses  —  you  will  say  —  why 
four,  because  I  wish  to  restrain  the  head- 
long impetuosity  of  my  Muse  —  she  would 
have  fain  said  « score '  without  hurting  the 
rhyme  —  but  we  must  temper  the  Imagina- 
tion, as  the  Critics  say,  with  Judgment.  I 
was  obliged  to  choose  an  even  number,  that 
both  eyes  might  have  fair  play,  and  to 
speak  truly  I  think  two  a  piece  quite  suf- 
ficient. Suppose  I  had  said  seven  there 
would  have  been  three  and  a  half  a  piece 
—  a  very  awkward  affair,  and  well  got  out 
of  on  my  side  — 

[Later.] 
CHORUS  OF  FAIRIES.  4  —  FIRE,  AIR,  EARTH, 

AND    WATER    —  SALAMANDER,    ZEPHYR, 

DUSKETHA,  BREAMA. 

[Keats  here  copies  the  verses  given  on  pp. 
140,  141.] 

I  have  been  reading,  lately  two  very 
different  books,  Robertson's  America  and 
Voltaire's  Siecle  de  Louis  XIV.  It  is  like 


TO   GEORGE   AND   GEORGIANA   KEATS 


369 


walking  arm  and  arm  between  Pizarro  and 
the  great-little  Monarch.  In  how  lament- 
able a  case  do  we  see  the  great  body  of  the 
people  in  both  instances ;  in  the  first,  where 
Men  might  seem  to  inherit  quiet  of  Mind 
from  unsophisticated  senses  ;  from  uucon- 
tamination  of  civilisation,  and  especially 
from  their  being,  as  it  were,  estranged 
from  the  mutual  helps  of  Society  and  its 
mutual  injuries  —  and  thereby  more  im- 
mediately under  the  Protection  of  Provi- 
dence —  even  there  they  had  mortal  pains 
to  bear  as  bad,  or  even  worse  than  Bailiffs, 
Debts,  and  Poverties  of  civilised  Life. 
The  whole  appears  to  resolve  into  this  — 
that  Man  is  originally  a  poor  forked  crea- 
ture subject  to  the  same  mischances  as  the 
beasts  of  the  forest,  destined  to  hardships 
and  disquietude  of  some  kind  or  other.  If 
he  improves  by  degrees  his  bodily  accommo- 
dations and  comforts  —  at  each  stage,  at 
each  ascent  there  are  waiting  for  him  a 
fresh  set  of  annoyances  —  he  is  mortal,  and 
there  is  still  a  heaven  with  its  Stars  above 
his  head.  The  most  interesting  question 
that  can  come  before  us  is,  How  far  by 
the  persevering  endeavours  of  a  seldom 
appearing  Socrates  Mankind  may  be  made 
happy  —  I  can  imagine  such  happiness 
carried  to  an  extreme,  but  what  must  it 
end  in  ?  —  Death  —  and  who  could  in  such 
a  case  bear  with  death  ?  The  whole 
troubles  of  life,  which  are  now  frittered 
away  in  a  series  of  years,  would  then  be 
accumulated  for  the  last  days  of  a  being 
who  instead  of  hailing  its  approach  would 
leave  this  world  as  Eve  left  Paradise.  But 
in  truth  I  do  not  at  all  believe  in  this  sort 
of  perfectibility  —  the  nature  of  the  world 
will  not  admit  of  it  —  the  inhabitants  of 
the  world  will  correspond  to  itself.  Let  the 
fish  Philosophise  the  ice  away  from  the 
Rivers  in  winter  time,  and  they  shall  be  at 
continual  play  in  the  tepid  delight  of  sum- 
mer. Look  at  the  Poles  and  at  the  Sands 
of  Africa,  whirlpools  and  volcanoes  —  Let 
men  exterminate  them  and  I  will  say  that 
they  may  arrive  at  earthly  Happiness.  The 


point  at  which  Man  may  arrive  is  as  far  as 
the  parallel  state  in  inanimate  nature,  and 
no  further.  For  instance  suppose  a  rose  to 
have  sensation,  it  blooms  on  a  beautiful 
morning,  it  enjoys  itself,  but  then  comes  a 
cold  wind,  a  hot  sun  —  it  cannot  escape  it, 
it  cannot  destroy  its  annoyances  —  they  are 
as  native  to  the  world  as  itself :  no  more 
can  man  be  happy  in  spite,  the  worldly  ele- 
ments will  prey  upon  his  nature.  The 
common  cognomen  of  this  world  among  the 
misguided  and  superstitious  is  *a  vale  of 
tears,'  from  which  we  are  to  be  redeeme'd 
by  a  certain  arbitrary  interposition  of  God 
and  taken  to  Heaven  —  What  a  little  cir- 
cumscribed straightened  notion  !  Call  the 
world  if  you  please  'The  vale  of  Soul- 
making.'  Then  you  will  find  out  the  use  of 
the  world  (I  am  speaking  now  in  the  highest 
terms  for  human  nature  admitting  it  to  be 
immortal  which  I  will  here  take  for  granted 
for  the  purpose  of  showing  a  thought  which 
has  struck  me  concerning  it)  I  say  « Soul- 
making  '  —  Soul  as  distinguished  from  an 
Intelligence.  There  may  be  intelligences 
or  sparks  of  the  divinity  in  millions  —  but 
they  are  not  Souls  till  they  acquire  identi- 
ties, till  each  one  is  personally  itself.  Intel- 
ligences are  atoms  of  perception  —  they 
know  and  they  see  and  they  are  pure,  in  short 
they  are  God  —  how  then  are  Souls  to  be 
made  ?  How  then  are  these  sparks  which 
are  God  to  have  identity  given  them  —  so 
as  ever  to  possess  a  bliss  peculiar  to  each 
one's  individual  existence?  How,  but  by 
the  medium  of  a  world  like  this  ?  This  point 
I  sincerely  wish  to  consider  because  I 
think  it  a  grander  system  of  salvation  than 
the  Christian  religion  —  or  rather  it  is  a 
system  of  Spirit-creation  —  This  is  effected 
by  three  grand  materials  acting  the  one 
upon  the  other  for  a  series  of  years  — 
These  three  Materials  are  the  Intelligence 
—  the  human  heart  (as  distinguished  from 
intelligence  or  Mind),  and  the  World  or 
Elemental  space  suited  for  the  proper  action 
of  Mind  and  Heart  on  each  other  for  the 
purpose  of  forming  the  Soul  or  Intelligence 


LETTERS   OF  JOHN   KEATS 


destined  to  possess  the  sense  of  Identity.  I 
can  scarcely  express  what  I  but  dimly  per- 
ceive —  and  yet  I  think  I  perceive  it  — 
that  you  may  judge  the  more  clearly  I  will 
put  it  in  the  most  homely  form  possible.  I 
will  call  the  world  a  School  instituted  for 
the  purpose  of  teaching  little  children  to 
read  —  I  will  call  the  human  heart  the  horn 
Book  used  in  that  School  —  and  I  will  call 
the  Child  able  to  read,  the  Soul  made  from 
that  School  and  its  horn  book.  Do  you  not 
see  how  necessary  a  World  of  Pains  and 
troubles  is  to  school  an  Intelligence  and 
make  it  a  soul  ?  A  Place  where  the  heart 
must  feel  and  suffer  in  a  thousand  diverse 
ways.  Not  merely  is  the  Heart  a  Horn- 
book, It  is  the  Mind's  Bible,  it  is  the  Mind's 
experience,  it  is  the  text  from  which  the 
Mind  or  Intelligence  sucks  its  identity. 
As  various  as  the  Lives  of  Men  are  —  so 
various  become  their  souls,  and  thus  does 
God  make  individual  beings,  Souls,  Identi- 
cal Souls  of  the  sparks  of  his  own  essence. 
This  appears  to  me  a  faint  sketch  of  a  sys- 
tem of  Salvation  which  does  not  offend  our 
reason  and  humanity  —  I  am  convinced  that 
many  difficulties  which  Christians  labour 
under  would  vanish  before  it  —  there  is  one 
which  even  now  strikes  me  —  the  salvation 
of  Children.  In  them  the  spark  or  intel- 
ligence returns  to  God  without  any  identity 
—  it  having  had  no  time  to  learn  of  and  be 
altered  by  the  heart  —  or  seat  of  the  human 
Passions.  It  is  pretty  generally  suspected 
that  the  Christian  scheme  has  been  copied 
from  the  ancient  Persian  and  Greek  Philo- 
sophers. Why  may  they  not  have  made 
this  simple  thing  even  more  simple  for 
common  apprehension  by  introducing  Medi- 
ators and  Personages,  in  the  same  manner 
as  in  the  heathen  mythology  abstractions 
are  personified  ?  Seriously  I  think  it  prob- 
able that  this  system  of  Soul-making  may 
have  been  the  Parent  of  all  the  more  pal- 
pable and  personal  schemes  of  Redemption 
among  the  Zoroastrians  the  Christians  and 
the  Hindoos.  For  as  one  part  of  the  human 
species  must  have  their  carved  Jupiter  ;  so 


another  part  must  have  the  palpable  and 
named  Mediator  and  Saviour,  their  Christ, 
their  Oromanes,  and  their  Vishnu.  If  what 
I  have  said  should  not  be  plain  enough, 
as  I  fear  it  may  not  be,  I  will  put  you  in 
the  place  where  I  began  in  this  series  of 
thoughts  —  I  mean  I  began  by  seeing  how 
man  was  formed  by  circumstances  —  and 
what  are  circumstances  but  touchstones 
of  his  heart  ?  and  what  are  touchstones 
but  provings  of  his  heart,  but  fortifiers 
or  alterers  of  his  nature  ?  and  what  is 
his  altered  nature  but  his  Soul  ?  —  and 
what  was  his  Soul  before  it  came  into  the 
world  and  had  these  provings  and  altera- 
tions and  perfectionings  ?  —  An  intelligence 
without  Identity  —  and  how  is  this  Identity 
to  be  made  ?  Through  the  medium  of  the 
Heart  ?  and  how  is  the  heart  to  become 
this  Medium  but  in  a  world  of  Circum- 
stances ? 

There  now  I  think  what  with  Poetry  and 
Theology,  you  may  thank  your  stars  that 
my  pen  is  not  very  long-winded.  Yes- 
terday I  received  two  Letters  from  your 
Mother  and  Henry,  which  I  shall  send  by 
young  Birkbeck  with  this. 

Friday,  April  30. 

Brown  has  been  here  rummaging  up  some 
of  my  old  sins  —  that  is  to  say  sonnets.  I  do 
not  think  you  remember  them,  so  I  will  copy 
them  out,  as  well  as  two  or  three  lately 
written.  I  have  just  written  one  on  Fame 
—  which  Brown  is  transcribing  and  he  has 
his  book  and  mine.  I  must  employ  myself 
perhaps  in  a  sonnet  on  the  same  subject.  — 
[Here  are  given  the  two  sonnets  on  Fame, 
and  the  one  To  Sleep,  p.  142.] 

The  following  Poem  —  the  last  I  have 
written  —  is  the  first  and  the  only  one  with 
which  I  have  taken  even  moderate  pains. 
I  have  for  the  most  part  dash'd  off  my  lines 
in  a  hurry.  This  I  have  done  leisurely  — 
I  think  it  reads  the  more  richly  for  it,  and 
will  I  hope  encourage  me  to  write  other 
things  in  even  a  more  peaceable  and  healthy 
spirit.  You  must  recollect  that  Psyche  was 


TO    BENJAMIN    ROBERT    HAYDON 


37 


not  embodied  as  a  goddess  before  the  time 
of  Apuleius  the  Platonist  who  lived  after 
the  Augustan  age,  and  consequently  the 
Goddess  was  never  worshipped  or  sacrificed 
to  with  any  of  the  ancient  fervour  —  and 
perhaps  never  thought  of  in  the  old  religion 
—  I  am  more  orthodox  than  to  let  a  hea- 
then Goddess  be  so  neglected  — 

[The  Ode  to  Psyche,  p.  142,  here  follows.] 
Here  endethe  ye  Ode  to  Psyche. 


Incipit  altera  Sonneta 

I  have  been  endeavouring  to  discover  a 
better  Sonnet  Stanza  than  we  have.  The 
legitimate  does  not  suit  the  language  over 
well  from  the  pouncing  rhymes  —  the  other 
kind  appears  too  elegiac  —  and  the  couplet 
at  the  end  of  it  has  seldom  a  pleasing  effect 
—  I  do  not  pretend  to  have  succeeded  —  it 
will  explain  itself.  [See  p.  144.] 

[May  3.] 

This  is  the  third  of  May,  and  everything 
is  in  delightful  forwardness  ;  the  violets 
are  not  withered  before  the  peeping  of  the 
first  rose.  You  must  let  me  know  every- 
thing—  how  parcels  go  and  come,  what 
papers  you  have,  and  what  newspapers  you 
want,  and  other  things.  God  bless  you,  my 
dear  brother  and  sister. 

Your  ever  affectionate  Brother 

JOHN  KEATS. 


95.      TO  FANNY  KEATS 

Wentworth  Place.    Saturday  Morn. 

[Postmark,  February  27,  1819.] 
MY  DEAR  FANNY  —  I  intended  to  have 
not  failed  to  do  as  you  requested,  and  write 
you  as  you  say  once  a  fortnight.  On  look- 
ing to  your  letter  I  find  there  is  no  date; 
and  not  knowing  how  long  it  is  since  I  re- 
ceived it  I  do  not  precisely  know  how  great 
a  sinner  I  am.  I  am  getting  quite  well, 
and  Mrs.  Dilke  is  getting  on  pretty  well. 


You  must  pay  no  attention  to  Mrs.  Abbey's 
unfeeling  and  ignorant  gabble.  You  can't 
stop  an  old  woman's  crying  more  than  you 
can  a  Child's.  The  old  woman  is  the  great- 
est nuisance  because  she  is  too  old  for  the 
rod.  Many  people  live  opposite  a  Black- 
smith's till  they  cannot  hear  the  hammer. 
I  have  been  in  Town  for  two  or  three  days 
and  came  back  last  night.  I  have  been  a 
little  concerned  at  not  hearing  from  George 
—  I  continue  in  daily  expectation.  Keep 
on  reading  and  play  as  much  on  the  music 
and  the  grassplot  as  you  can.  I  should 
like  to  take  possession  of  those  Grassplots 
for  a  Month  or  so  ;  and  send  Mrs.  A.  to 
Town  to  count  coffee  berries  instead  of 
currant  Bunches,  for  I  want  you  to  teach 
me  a  few  common  dancing  steps  —  and  I 
would  buy  a  Watch  box  to  practise  them 
in  by  myself.  I  think  I  had  better  always 
pay  the  postage  of  these  Letters.  I  shall 
send  you  another  book  the  first  time  I  am 
in  Town  early  enough  to  book  it  with  one 
of  the  morning  Walthamstow  Coaches. 
You  did  not  say  a  word  about  your  Chill- 
blains.  Write  me  directly  and  let  me  know 
about  them  —  Your  Letter  shall  be  an- 
swered like  an  echo. 

Your  affectionate  Brother  JOHN . 

96.      TO  BENJAMIN  ROBERT   HAYDON 

Wentworth  Place, 
[Postmark,  March  8,  1819.] 

MY  DEAR  HAYDON,  —You  must  be  won- 
dering where  I  am  and  what  I  am  about ! 
I  am  mostly  at  Hampstead,  and  about  no- 
thing; being  in  a  sort  of  qui  bono  temper, 
not  exactly  on  the  road  to  an  epic  poem. 
Nor  must  you  think  I  have  forgotten  you. 
No,  I  have  about  every  three  days  been 
to  Abbey's  and  to  the  Law[y]ers.  Do  let 
me  know  how  you  have  been  getting  on, 
and  in  what  spirits  you  are. 

You  got  out  gloriously  in  yesterday's 
Examiner.  What  a  set  of  little  people  we 
live  amongst!  I  went  the  other  day  into  an 
ironmonger's  shop  —  without  any  change 


372 


LETTERS    OF   JOHN    KEATS 


in  my  sensations  —  men  and  tin  kettles  are 
much  the  same  in  these  days  —  they  do  not 
study  like  children  at  five  and  thirty  —  but 
they  talk  like  men  of  twenty.  Conversa- 
tion is  not  a  search  after  knowledge,  but 
an  endeavour  at  effect. 

In  this  respect  two  most  opposite  men, 
Wordsworth  and  Hunt,  are  the  same.  A 
friend  of  mine  observed  the  other  day  that 
if  Lord  Bacon  were"  to  make  any  remark 
in  a  party  of  the  present  day,  the  conversa- 
tion would  stop  on  the  sudden.  I  am  con- 
vinced of  this,  and  from  this  I  have  come 
to  this  resolution  —  never  to  write  for  the 
sake  of  writing  or  making  a  poem,  but 
from  running  over  with  any  little  knowl- 
edge or  experience  which  many  years  of 
reflection  may  perhaps  give  me  ;  otherwise 
I  will  be  dumb.  What  imagination  I  have 
I  shall  enjoy,  and  greatly,  for  I  have  ex- 
perienced the  satisfaction  of  having  great 
conceptions  without  the  trouble  of  sonnet- 
teering.  I  will  not  spoil  my  love  of  gloom 
by  writing  an  Ode  to  Darkness  ! 

With  respect  to  my  livelihood,  I  will  not 
write  for  it,  —  for  I  will  not  run  with  that 
most  vulgar  of  all  crowds,  the  literary. 
Such  things  I  ratify  by  looking  upon  my- 
self, and  trying  myself  at  lifting  mental 
weights,  as  it  were.  I  am  three  and  twenty 
with  little  knowledge  and  middling  intel- 
lect. It  is  true  that  in  the  height  of  enthu- 
siasm I  have  been  cheated  into  some  fine 
passages  ;  but  that  is  not  the  thing. 

I  have  not  been  to  see  you  because  all 
my  going  out  has  been  to  town,  and  that 
has  been  a  great  deal.  Write  soon. 

Yours  constantly,        JOHN  KEATS. 

97.      TO  FANNY  KEATS 

Wentworth  Place,  March  13  [1819], 
MY  DEAR  FANNY  —  I  have  been  em- 
ployed lately  in  writing  to  George  —  I  do 
not  send  him  very  short  letters,  but  keep 
on  day  after  day.  There  were  some  young 
Men  I  think  I  told  you  of  who  were  going 
to  the  Settlement :  they  have  changed  their 


minds,  and  1  am  disappointed  in  my  expec- 
tation of  sending  Letters  by  them.  —  I  went 
lately  to  the  only  dance  I  have  been  to  these 
twelve  months  or  shall  go  to  for  twelve 
months  again — it  was  to  our  Brother  in 
law's  cousin's  —  She  gave  a  dance  for  her 
Birthday  and  I  went  for  the  sake  of  Mrs. 
Wylie.  I  am  waiting  every  day  to  hear 
from  George  —  I  trust  there  is  no  harm  in 
the  silence:  other  people  are  in  the  same 
expectation  as  we  are.  On  looking  at  your 
seal  I  cannot  tell  whether  it  is  done  or  not 
with  a  Tassie  —  it  seems  to  me  to  be  paste. 
As  I  went  through  Leicester  Square  lately 
I  was  going  to  call  and  buy  you  some,  but 
not  knowing  but  you  might  have  some  I 
would  not  run  the  chance  of  buying  dupli- 
cates. Tell  me  if  you  have  any  or  if  you 
would  like  any  —  and  whether  you  would 
rather  have  motto  ones  like  that  with  which 
I  seal  this  letter  ;  or  heads  of  great  Men 
such  as  Shakspeare,  Milton,  etc.  —  or  fancy 
pieces  of  Art;  such  as  Fame,  Adonis,  etc.  — 
those  gentry  you  read  of  at  the  end  of  the 
English  Dictionary.  Tell  me  also  if  you 
want  any  particular  Book  ;  or  Pencils,  or 
drawing  paper  —  anything  but  live  stock. 
Though  I  will  not  now  be  very  severe  on 
it,  remembering  how  fond  I  used  to  be 
of  Goldfinches,  Tomtits,  Minnows,  Mice, 
Ticklebacks,  Dace,  Cock  salmons  and  all  the 
whole  tribe  of  the  Bushes  arid  the  Brooks: 
but  verily  they  are  better  in  the  Trees  and 
the  water  —  though  I  must  confess  even 
now  a  partiality  for  a  handsome  Globe  of 
gold-fish  —  then  I  would  have  it  hold  10 
pails  of  water  and  be  fed  continually  fresh 
through  a  cool  pipe  with  another  pipe  to  let 
through  the  floor  —  well  ventilated  they 
would  preserve  all  their  beautiful  silver 
and  Crimson.  Then  I  would  put  it  before 
a  handsome  painted  window  and  shade  it 
all  round  with  myrtles  and  Japonicas.  I 
should  like  the  window  to  open  onto  the 
Lake  of  Geneva  —  and  there  I  'd  sit  and 
read  all  day  like  the  picture  of  somebody 
reading.  The  weather  now  and  then  begins 
to  feel  like  spring;  and  therefore  I  have 


TO    BENJAMIN   ROBERT   HAYDON 


373 


begun  my  walks  on  the  heath  again.  Mrs. 
Dilke  is  getting  better  than  she  has  been 
as  she  has  at  length  taken  a  Physician's  ad- 
vice. She  ever  and  anon  asks  after  you 
and  always  bids  me  remember  her  in  my 
Letters  to  you.  She  is  going  to  leave 
Hampstead  for  the  sake  of  educating  their 
son  Charles  at  the  Westminster  School. 
We  (Mr.  Brown  and  I)  shall  leave  in  the 
beginning  of  May;  I  do  not  know  what  I 
shall  do  or  where  be  all  the  next  summer. 
Mrs.  Reynolds  has  had  a  sick  house  ;  but 
they  are  all  well  now.  You  see  what  news 
I  can  send  you  I  do  —  we  all  live  one  day 
like  the  other  as  well  as  you  do  —  the  only 
difference  is  being  sick  and  well  —  with  the 
variations  of  single  and  double  knocks,  and 
the  story  of  a  dreadful  fire  in  the  News- 
papers. I  mentioned  Mr.  Brown's  name  — 
yet  I  do  not  think  I  ever  said  a  word  about 
him  to  you.  He  is  a  friend  of  mine  of 
two  years'  standing,  with  whom  I  walked 
through  Scotland:  who  has  been  very  kind 
to  me  in  many  things  when  I  most  wanted 
his  assistance  and  with  whom  I  keep  house 
till  the  first  of  May  —  you  will  know  him 
some  day.  The  name  of  the  young  Man 
who  came  with  me  is  William  Haslam. 
Ever  your  affectionate  Brother  JOHN. 

98.      TO   THE  SAME 

[Postmark,  Hampstead,  March  24, 1819.] 
MY  DEAR  FANNY  —  It  is  impossible  for 
me  to  call  on  you  to-day  —  for  I  have  par- 
ticular Business  at   the    other  end  of  the 
Town  this  morning,  and  must  be  back  to 
Hampstead  with  all  speed  to  keep  a  long 
agreed  on  appointment.    To-morrow  I  shall 
see  you.         Your  affectionate  Brother 
JOHN . 

99.    TO  JOSEPH  SEVERN 

Wentworth  Place,  Monday  Aft. 

[March  29  ?  1819J. 

MY  DEAR  SEVERN  —  Your  note  gave  me 
some  pain,  not  on  my  own  account,  but  on 


yours.  Of  course  I  should  never  suffer 
any  petty  vanity  of  mine  to  hinder  you  in 
any  wise ;  and  therefore  I  should  say  *  put 
the  miniature  in  the  exhibition '  if  only 
myself  was  to  be  hurt.  But,  will  it  not 
hurt  you?  What  good  can  it  do  to  any 
future  picture.  Even  a  large  picture  is 
lost  in  that  canting  place  —  what  a  drop  of 
water  in  the  ocean  is  a  Miniature.  Those 
who  might  chance  to  see  it  for  the  most 
part  if  they  had  ever  heard  of  either  of  us 
and  know  what  we  were  and  of  what  years 
would  laugh  at  the  puff  of  the  one  and  the 
vanity  of  the  other.  I  am  however  in  these 
matters  a  very  bad  judge  —  and  would  ad- 
vise you  to  act  in  a  way  that  appears  to 
yourself  the  best  for  your  interest.  As 
your  «  Hermia  and  Helena  '  is  finished 
send  that  without  the  prologue  of  a  Minia- 
ture. I  shall  see  you  soon,  if  you  do  not 
pay  me  a  visit  sooner  —  there  's  a  Bull  for 
you.  Yours  ever  sincerely 

JOHN  KEATS. 

100.  TO  BENJAMIN  ROBERT  HAYDON 

Tuesday  [April  13,  1819]. 
MY  DEAR  HAYDON— When  I  offered 
you  assistance  I  thought  I  had  it  in  my 
hand ;  I  thought  I  had  nothing  to  do 
but  to  do.  The  difficulties  I  met  with 
arose  from  the  alertness  and  suspicion  of 
Abbey :  and  especially  from  the  affairs 
being  still  in  a  Lawyer's  hand  —  who  has 
been  draining  our  Property  for  the  last  six 
years  of  every  charge  he  could  make.  I 
cannot  do  two  things  at  once,  and  thus  this 
affair  has  stopped  my  pursuits  in  every 
way  —  from  the  first  prospect  I  had  of 
difficulty.  I  assure  you  I  have  harrassed 
myself  ten  times  more  than  if  I  alone  had 
been  concerned  in  so  much  gain  or  loss.  I 
have  also  ever  told  you  the  exact  particu- 
lars as  well  as  and  as  literally  as  any  hopes 
or  fear  could  translate  them  :  for  it  was 
only  by  parcels  that  I  found  all  those  petty 
obstacles  which  for  my  own  sake  should 
not  exist  a  moment  —  and  yet  why  not  — 


374 


LETTERS    OF   JOHN   KEATS 


for  from  my  own  imprudence  and  neglect 
all  my  accounts  are  entirely  in  my  Guard- 
ian's Power.  This  has  taught  me  a  Les- 
son. Hereafter  I  will  be  more  correct. 
I  find  myself  possessed  of  much  less  than 
I  thought  for  and  now  if  I  had  all  on  the 
table  all  I  could  do  would  be  to  take  from 
it  a  moderate  two  years'  subsistence  and 
lend  you  the  rest ;  but  I  cannot  say  how 
soon  I  could  become  possessed  of  it.  This 
would  be  no  sacrifice  nor  any  matter  worth 
thinking  of  —  much  less  than  parting  as  1 
have  more  than  once  done  with  little  sums 
which  might  have  gradually  formed  a 
library  to  my  taste.  These  sums  amount 
together  to  nearly  £200,  which  I  have 
but  a  chance  of  ever  being  repaid  or  paid 
at  a  very  distant  period.  I  am  humble 
enough  to  put  this  in  writing  from  the 
sense  I  have  of  your  struggling  situation 
and  the  great  desire  that  you  should  do  me 
the  justice  to  credit  me  the  unostentatious 
and  willing  state  of  my  nerves  on  all  such 
occasions.  It  has  not  been  my  fault.  I 
am  doubly  hurt  at  the  slightly  reproachful 
tone  of  your  note  and  at  the  occasion  of  it, 
—  for  it  must  be  some  other  disappoint- 
ment ;  you  seem'd  so  sure  of  some  impor- 
tant help  when  I  last  saw  you  —  now  you 
have  maimed  me  again  ;  I  was  whole,  I 
had  began  reading  again  —  when  your  note 
came  I  was  engaged  in  a  Book.  I  dread 
as  much  as  a  Plague  the  idle  fever  of  two 
months  more  without  any  fruit.  I  will 
walk  over  the  first  fine  day  :  then  see  what 
aspect  your  affairs  have  taken,  and  if  they 
should  continue  gloomy  walk  into  the  City 
to  Abbey  and  get  his  consent  for  I  am  per- 
suaded that  to  me  alone  he  will  not  concede 
a  jot. 

101.      TO  FANNY  KEATS 

Wentworth  Place  [April  13, 1819]. 
MY  DEAR  FANNY  — I  have  been  expect- 
ing a  Letter  from  you  about  what  the  Par- 
son said  to  your  answers.     I  have  thought 
also  of  writing  to  you  often,  and  I  am  sorry 


to  confess  that  my  neglect  of  it  has  been 
but  a  small  instance  of  my  idleness  of  late 
—  which  has  been  growing  upon  me,  so 
that  it  will  require  a  great  shake  to  get  rid 
of  it.  I  have  written  nothing  and  almost 
read  nothing  —  but  I  must  turn  over  a  new 
leaf.  One  most  discouraging  thing  hinders 
me  —  we  have  no  news  yet  from  George  — 
so  that  I  cannot  with  any  confidence  con- 
tinue the  Letter  I  have  been  preparing  for 
him.  Many  are  in  the  same  state  with  us 
and  many  have  heard  from  the  Settlement. 
They  must  be  well  however:  and  we  must 
consider  this  silence  as  good  news.  I  or- 
dered some  bulbous  roots  for  you  at  the 
Gardener's,  and  they  sent  me  some,  but 
they  were  all  in  bud  —  and  could  not  be 
sent  —  so  I  put  them  in  our  Garden.  There 
are  some  beautiful  heaths  now  in  bloom  in 
Pots  —  either  heaths  or  some  seasonable 
plants  I  will  send  you  instead  —  perhaps 
some  that  are  not  yet  in  bloom  that  you 
may  see  them  come  out.  To-morrow  night 
I  am  going  to  a  rout,  a  thing  I  am  not  at 
all  in  love  with.  Mr.  Dilke  and  his  Family 
have  left  Hampstead  —  I  shall  dine  with 
them  to-day  in  Westminster  where  I  think 
I  told  you  they  were  going  to  reside  for 
the  sake  of  sending  their  son  Charles  to 
the  Westminster  School.  I  think  I  men- 
tioned the  Death  of  Mr.  Haslam's  Father. 
Yesterday  week  the  two  Mr.  Wylies  dined 
with  me.  I  hope  you  have  good  store 
of  double  violets  —  I  think  they  are  the 
Princesses  of  flowers,  and  in  a  shower  of 
rain,  almost  as  fine  as  barley  sugar  drops 
are  to  a  schoolboy's  tongue.  I  suppose 
this  fine  weather  the  lambs'  tails  give  a 
frisk  or  two  extraordinary  —  when  a  boy 
would  cry  huzzah  and  a  Girl  O  my !  a  little 
Lamb  frisks  its  tail.  I  have  not  been  lately 
through  Leicester  Square  —  the  first  time  I 
do  I  will  remember  your  Seals.  I  have 
thought  it  best  to  live  in  Town  this  Sum- 
mer, chiefly  for  the  sake  of  books,  which 
cannot  be  had  with  any  comfort  in  the 
Country  —  besides  my  Scotch  journey  gave 
me  a  dose  of  the  Picturesque  with  which  I 


TO   WILLIAM    HASLAM 


375 


ought  to  be  contented  for  some  time.  West- 
minster is  the  place  I  have  pitched  upon  — 
the  City  or  any  place  very  confined  would 
soon  turn  me  pale  and  thin  —  which  is  to 
be  avoided.  You  must  make  up  your  mind 
to  get  stout  this  summer  —  indeed  I  have 
an  idea  we  shall  both  be  corpulent  old  folks 
with  tripple  chins  and  stumpy  thumbs. 
Your  affectionate  Brother  JOHN. 


102.      TO  THE   SAME 

Wentworth  Place,  Saturday. 
[April  17,  1819?.] 

MY  DEAR  FANNY  —  If  it  were  but  six 
o'Clock  in  the  morning  I  would  set  off  to 
see  you  to-day  :  if  I  should  do  so  now  I 
could  not  stop  long  enough  for  a  how  d  'ye 
do  —  it  is  so  long  a  walk  through  Hornsey 
and  Tottenham  —  and  as  for  Stage  Coach- 
ing it  besides  that  it  is  very  expensive  it  is 
like  going  into  the  Boxes  by  way  of  the 
pit.  I  cannot  go  out  on  Sunday  —  but  if 
on  Monday  it  should  promise  as  fair  as 
to-day  I  will  put  on  a  pair  of  loose  easy 
palatable  boots  and  me  rendre  chez  vous. 
I  continue  increasing  my  letter  [Letter  94] 
to  George  to  send  it  by  one  of  Birkbeck's 
sons  who  is  going  out  soon  —  so  if  you  will 
let  me  have  a  few  more  lines,  they  will  be 
in  time.  I  am  glad  you  got  on  so  well 
with  Monsf.  le  Cure'.  Is  he  a  nice  cler- 
gyman?—a  great  deal  depends  upon  a 
cock'd  hat  and  powder  —  not  gunpowder, 
lord  love  us,  but  lady-meal,  violet-smooth, 
dainty  -  scented,  lilly-white,  feather  -  soft, 
wigsby  -  dressing,  coat  -  collar  -  spoiling, 
whisker-reaching,  pig-tail-loving,  swans- 
down-puffing,  parson-sweetening  powder. 
I  shall  call  in  passing  at  the  Tottenham 
nursery  and  see  if  I  can  find  some  season- 
able plants  for  you.  That  is  the  nearest 
place  —  or  by  our  la'kin  or  lady  kin,  that 
is  by  the  virgin  Mary's  kindred,  is  there  not 
a  twig-manufacturer  in  Walthamstow  ? 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Dilke  are  coming  to  dine 
with  us  to-day.  They  will  enjoy  the  coun- 
try after  Westminster  O  there  is  nothing 


like  fine  weather,  and  health,  and  Books, 
and  a  fine  country,  and  a  contented  Mind, 
and  diligent  habit  of  reading  and  thinking, 
and  an  amulet  against  the  ennui  —  and, 
please  heaven,  a  little  claret  wine  cool  out 
of  a  cellar  a  mile  deep  —  with  a  few  or  a 
good  many  ratafia  cakes  —  a  rocky  basin  to 
bathe  in,  a  strawberry  bed  to  say  your 
prayers  to  Flora  in,  a  pad  nag  to  go  you 
ten  miles  or  so  ;  two  or  three  sensible 
people  to  chat  with  ;  two  or  three  spiteful 
folks  to  spar  with  ;  two  or  three  odd  fishes 
to  laugh  at  and  two  or  three  numskulls  to 
argue  with- —  instead  of  using  dumb  bells 
on  a  rainy  day  — 

[Keats  goes  on  with  the  same  play,  dropping: 
into  the  rhymes  '  Two  or  three  Posies  '  given 
above,  p.  251.] 

Good-bye  I've  an   appointment  —  can't 
stop     pon     word  —  good-bye  —  now 
don't  get  up  —  open  the  door  my- 
self —  good-bye  —  see  ye  Monday. 
J.  K. 

103.      TO  THE    SAME 

[Hampstead,  May  13,  1819.] 
MY  DEAR  FANNY  —  I  have  a  letter  from 
George  at  last  —  and  it  contains,  consider- 
ing all  things,  good  news  —  I  have  been 
with  it  to-day  to  Mrs.  Wy lie's,  with  whom  I 
have  left  it.  I  shall  have  it  again  as  soon 
as  possible  and  then  I  will  walk  over  and 
read  it  to  you.  They  are  quite  well  and 
settled  tolerably  in  comfort  after  a  great 
deal  of  fatigue  and  harass.  They  had  the 
good  chance  to  meet  at  Louisville  with  a 
Schoolfellow  of  ours.  You  may  expect  me 
within  three  days.  I  am  writing  to-night 
several  notes  concerning  this  to  many  of 
my  friends.  Good  night  ;  God  bless  you. 
JOHN  KEATS. 

104.      TO  WILLIAM    HASLAM 

[Postmark,  Hampstead,  May  13,  1819.] 
MY  DEAR  HASLAM  —  We  have  news  at 
last  —  and  tolerably  good  —  they  have  not 


376 


LETTERS   OF  JOHN   KEATS 


gone  to  the  Settlement  —  they  are  both  in 
good  Health  —  I  read  the  letter  to  Mrs. 
Wylie  today  and  requested  her  after  her 
Sons  had  read  it  —  they  would  enclose  it 
to  you  immediately  which  was  faithfully 
promised.  Send  it  me  like  Lightning  that 
I  may  take  it  to  Walthamstow. 
Yours  ever  and  amen, 

JOHN  KEATS. 

105.      TO  FANNY  KEATS 

[Hampstead,  May  26, 1819.] 
MY  DEAR  FANNY  —  I  have  been  looking 
for  a  fine  day  to  pass  at  Walthamstow  : 
there  has  not  been  one  Morning  (except 
Sunday  and  then  I  was  obliged  to  stay  at 
home)  that  I  could  depend  upon.  I  have 
I  am  sorry  to  say  had  an  accident  with  the 
Letter  —  I  sent  it  to  Haslam  and  he  re- 
turned it  torn  into  a  thousand  pieces.  So  I 
shall  be  obliged  to  tell  you  all  I  can  remem- 
ber from  Memory.  You  would  have  heard 
from  me  before  this  but  that  I  was  in  con- 
tinual expectation  of  a  fine  Morning  —  I 
want  also  to  speak  to  you  concerning  myself. 
Mind  I  do  not  purpose  to  quit  England,  as 
George  has  done  ;  but  I  am  afraid  I  shall 
be  forced  to  take  a  voyage  or  two.  How- 
ever we  will  not  think  of  that  for  some 
Months.  Should  it  be  a  fine  morning  to- 
morrow you  will  see  me. 

Your  affectionate  Brother     JOHN . 

106.      TO  MISS  JEFFREY 

C.  Brown,  Esqre's  Wentworth  Place, 
Hampstead  [Postmark  May  31,  1819], 

MY  DEAR  LADY  —  I  was  making  a  day 
or  two  ago  a  general  conflagration  of  all 
old  Letters  and  Memorandums,  which  had 
become  of  no  interest  to  me  —  I  made, 
however,  like  the  Barber-inquisitor  in  Don 
Quixote  some  reservations  —  among  the 
rest  your  and  your  Sister's  Letters.  I  as- 
sure you  you  had  not  entirely  vanished 
from  my  Mind,  or  even  become  shadows  in 
my  remembrance :  it  only  needed  such  a 


memento  as  your  Letters  to  bring  you  back 
to  me.  Why  have  I  not  written  before  ? 
Why  did  I  not  answer  your  Honiton  Let- 
ter ?  I  had  no  good  news  for  you  —  every 
concern  of  ours,  (ours  I  wish  I  could  say) 
and  still  I  must  say  ours  —  though  George 
is  in  America  and  I  have  no  Brother  left. 
Though  in  the  midst  of  my  troubles  I  had 
no  relation  except  my  young  sister  —  I 
have  had  excellent  friends.  Mr.  B.  at 
whose  house  I  now  am,  invited  me,  —  I 
have  been  with  him  ever  since.  I  could 
not  make  up  my  mind  to  let  you  know 
these  things.  Nor  should  I  now  —  but  see 
what  a  little  interest  will  do  —  I  want  you 
to  do  me  a  Favor ;  which  I  will  first  ask 
and  then  tell  you  the  reasons.  Enquire  in 
the  Villages  round  Teignmouth  if  there  is 
any  Lodging  commodious  for  its  cheap- 
ness ;  and  let  me  know  where  it  is  and 
what  price.  I  have  the  choice  as  it  were 
of  two  Poisons  (yet  I  ought  not  to  call  this 
a  Poison)  the  one  is  voyaging  to  and  from 
India  for  a  few  years  ;  the  other  is  leading 
a  fevrous  life  alone  with  Poetry  —  This 
latter  will  suit  me  best  ;  for  I  cannot  re- 
solve to  give  up  my  Studies. 

It  strikes  me  it  would  not  be  quite  so 
proper  for  you  to  make  such  inquiries  —  so 
give  my  love  to  your  mother  and  ask  her 
to  do  it.  Yes,  I  would  rather  conquer  my 
indolence  and  strain  my  nerves  at  some 
grand  Poem  than  to  be  in  a  dunder-headed 
indiaman.  Pray  let  no  one  in  Teignmouth 
know  anything  of  this.  Fanny  must  by 
this  time  have  altered  her  name  —  perhaps 
you  have  also  —  are  you  all  alive  ?  Give 

my  Compts  to  Mrs.  your  Sister.     I 

have  had  good  news,  (tho'  't  is  a  queerish 
world  in  which  such  things  are  call'd  good) 
from  George  —  he  and  his  wife  are  well.  I 
will  tell  you  more  soon.  Especially  don't 
let  the  Newfoundland  fishermen  know  it  — 
and  especially  no  one  else.  I  have  been 
always  till  now  almost  as  careless  of  the 
world  as  a  fly  —  my  troubles  were  all  of 
the  Imagination  —  My  Brother  George  al- 
ways stood  between  me  and  any  dealings 


TO   MISS   JEFFREY 


377 


with  the  world.  Now  I  find  I  must  buffet 
it  —  I  must  take  my  stand  upon  some  van- 
tage ground  and  begin  to  fight  —  I  must 
choose  between  despair  and  Energy  —  I 
choose  the  latter  —  though  the  world  has 
taken  on  a  quakerish  look  with  me,  which 
I  once  thought  was  impossible  — 

4  Nothing  can  bring  back  the  hour 
Of  splendour  in  the  grass  and  glory  in  the 
flower.' 

I  once  thought  this  a  Melancholist's 
dream  — 

But  why  do  I  speak  to  you  in  this  man- 
ner ?  No  believe  me  I  do  not  write  for  a 
mere  selfish  purpose  —  the  manner  in  which 
I  have  written  of  myself  will  convince  you. 
I  do  not  do  so  to  Strangers.  I  have  not 
quite  made  up  my  mind.  Write  me  on 
the  receipt  of  this  —  and  again  at  your 
Leisure  ;  between  whiles  you  shall  hear 
from  me  again  — 

Your  sincere  friend          JOHN  KEATS. 

107.      TO  THE   SAME 

Wentworth  Place,  [Postmark,  June  9, 1819]. 

MY  DEAR  YOUNG  LADY  —  I  am  exceed- 
ingly obliged  by  your  two  letters  —  Why  I 
did  not  answer  your  first  immediately  was 
that  I  have  had  a  little  aversion  to  the 
South  of  Devon  from  the  continual  remem- 
brance of  my  Brother  Tom.  On  that  ac- 
count I  do  not  return  to  my  old  Lodgings 
in  Hampstead  though  the  people  of  the 
house  have  become  friends  of  mine  —  This, 
however,  I  could  think  nothing  of,  it  can 
do  no  more  than  keep  one's  thoughts  em- 
ployed for  a  day  or  two.  I  like  your  de- 
scription of  Bradley  very  much  and  I  dare 
say  shall  be  there  in  the  course  of  the  sum- 
mer ;  it  would  be  immediately  but  that  a 
friend  with  ill  health  and  to  whom  I  am 
greatly  attached  call'd  on  me  yesterday 
and  proposed  my  spending  a  month  with 
him  at  the  back  of  the  Isle  of  Wight.  This 
is  just  the  thing  at  present  —  the  morrow 
will  take  care  of  itself  —  I  do  not  like  the 


name  of  Bishop's  Teigntown  —  I  hope  the 
road  from  Teignmouth  to  Bradley  does 
not  lie  that  way  —  Your  advice  about  the 
Indiaman  is  a  very  wise  advice,  because  it 
just  suits  me,  though  you  are  a  little  in  the 
wrong  concerning  its  destroying  the  ener- 
gies of  Mind  ;  on  the  contrary  it  would  be 
the  finest  thing  in  the  world  to  strengthen 
them  —  To  be  thrown  among  people  who 
care  not  for  you,  with  whom  you  have  no 
sympathies  forces  the  Mind  upon  its  own 
resources,  and  leaves  it  free  to  make  its 
speculations  of  the  differences  of  human 
character  and  to  class  them  with  the  calm- 
ness of  a  Botanist.  An  Indiaman  is  a  little 
world.  One  of  the  great  reasons  that  the 
English  have  produced  the  finest  writers 
in  the  world  is,  that  the  English  world  has 
ill  treated  them  during  their  lives  and 
foster'd  them  after  their  deaths.  They 
have  in  general  been  trampled  aside  into 
the  bye  paths  of  life  and  seen  the  fester- 
ings of  Society.  They  have  not  been 
treated  like  the  Raphaels  of  Italy.  And 
where  is  the  Englishman  and  Poet  who  has 
given  a  magnificent  Entertainment  at  the 
christening  of  one  of  his  Hero's  Horses  as 
Boyardo  did?  He  had  a  Castle  in  the 
Apennine.  He  was  a  noble  Poet  of  Ro- 
mance ;  not  a  miserable  and  mighty  Poet 
of  the  human  Heart.  The  middle  age  of 
Shakspeare  was  all  c[l]ouded  over ;  his 
days  were  not  more  happy  than  Hamlet's 
who  is  perhaps  more  like  Shakspeare  him- 
self in  his  common  everyday  Life  than  any 
other  of  his  Characters  —  Ben  Johnson 
(sic)  was  a  common  Soldier  and  in  the  Low 
countries,  in  the  face  of  two  armies,  fought 
a  single  combat  with  a  f  rench  Trooper  and 
slew  him  —  For  all  this  I  will  not  go  on 
board  an  Indiaman,  nor  for  example's  sake 
run  my  head  into  dark  alleys :  I  dare  say 
my  discipline  is  to  come,  and  plenty  of  it 
too.  I  have  been  very  idle  lately,  very 
averse  to  writing  ;  both  from  the  over- 
powering idea  of  our  dead  poets  and  from 
abatement  of  my  love  of  fame.  I  hope  I 
am  a  little  more  of  a  Philosopher  than  I 


378 


LETTERS   OF   JOHN    KEATS 


was,  consequently  a  little  less  of  a  versify- 
ing Pet-lamb.  I  have  put  no  more  in  Print 
or  you  should  have  had  it.  You  will  judge 
of  my  1819  temper  when  I  tell  you  that 
the  thing  I  have  most  enjoyed  this  year 
has  been  writing  an  ode  to  Indolence.  Why 
did  you  not  make  your  long-haired  sister 
put  her  great  brown  hard  fist  to  paper  and 
cross  your  Letter?  Tell  her  when  you 
write  again  that  I  expect  chequer  work  — 
My  friend  Mr.  Brown  is  sitting  opposite 
me  employed  in  writing  a  Life  of  David. 
He  reads  me  passages  as  he  writes  them 
stuffing  my  infidel  mouth  as  though  I  were 
a  young  rook  —  Infidel  Rooks  do  not  pro- 
vender with  Elisha's  Ravens.  If  he  goes 
on  as  he  has  begun  your  new  Church  had 
better  not  proceed,  for  parsons  will  be  su- 
perseeded  (sic)  —  and  of  course  the  Clerks 
must  follow.  Give  my  love  to  your  Mother 
with  the  assurance  that  I  can  never  forget 
her  anxiety  for  my  Brother  Tom.  Believe 
also  that  I  shall  ever  remember  our  leave- 
taking  with  you. 

Ever  sincerely  yours,      JOHN  KEATS. 

108.      TO  FANNY  KEATS 

Went  worth  Place  [June  9,  1819]. 
MY  DEAR  FANNY  —  I  shall  be  with  you 
next  Monday  at  the  farthest.  I  could  not 
keep  my  promise  of  seeing  you  again  in  a 
week  because  I  am  in  so  unsettled  a  state 
of  mind  about  what  I  am  to  do  —  I  have 
given  up  the  Idea  of  the  Indiamau  ;  I  can- 
not resolve  to  give  up  my  favorite  studies  : 
so  I  purpose  to  retire  into  the  Country  and 
set  my  Mind  at  work  once  more.  A  Friend 
of  Mine  [James  Rice]  who  has  an  ill  state 
of  health  called  on  me  yesterday  and  pro- 
posed to  spend  a  little  time  with  him  at  the 
back  of  the  Isle  of  Wight  where  he  said 
we  might  live  very  cheaply.  I  agreed  to 
his  proposal.  I  have  taken  a  great  dislike 
to  Town  —  I  never  go  there  —  some  one  is 
always  calling  on  me  and  as  we  have  spare 
beds  they  often  stop  a  couple  of  days.  I 
have  written  lately  to  some  acquaintances 


in  Devonshire  concerning  a  cheap  Lodging 
and  they  have  been  very  kind  in  letting  me 
know  all  I  wanted.  They  have  described 
a  pleasant  place  which  I  think  I  shall  even- 
tually retire  to.  How  came  you  on  with 
my  young  Master  Yorkshire  Man  ?  Did 
not  Mrs.  A.  sport  her  Carriage  and  one  ? 
They  really  surprised  me  with  super  civility 

—  how  did  Mrs.  A.  manage  it  ?     How  is 
the  old  tadpole  gardener  and  little  Master 
next  door  ?  it  is  to  be  hop'd  they  will  both 
die  some  of  these  days.     Not  having  been 
to  Town  I  have  not  heard  whether  Mr.  A. 
purposes  to  retire  from  business.     Do  let 
me  know  if  you  have  heard  anything  more 
about  it.     If  he  should  not  I  shall  be  very 
disappointed.     If  any  one   deserves  to  be 
put  to  his  shifts  it  is  that  Hodgkinson  — 
as  for  the  other  he  would  live  a  long  time 
upon  his  fat  and  be  none  the  worse  for  a 
good  long  lent.     How  came  miledi  to  give 
one   Lisbon   wine  —  had  she   drained   the 
Gooseberry  ?     Truly  I  cannot  delay  mak- 
ing another  visit  —  asked  to  take  Lunch, 
whether  I  will  have  ale,  wine,  take  sugar, 

—  objection  to  green  —  like  cream  —  thin 
bread  and  butter — another  cup — agreeable 

—  enough  sugar  —  little  more  cream  —  too 
weak  —  12  shillin  etc.  etc.  etc.  —  Lord  I 
must  come  again.     We  are  just  going  to 
Dinner  I  must  must  [sic]  with  this  to  the 
Post 

Your  affectionate  Brother     JOHN  — . 

109.      TO  JAMES  ELMES51 

Went  worth  Place,  Hampstead 
[June  12,  1819]. 

SIR  —  I  did  not  see  your  Note  till  this 
Saturday  evening,  or  I  should  have  an- 
swered it  sooner  —  However  as  it  happens 
I  have  but  just  received  the  Book  which 
contains  the  only  copy  of  the  verses  in 
question.  I  have  asked  for  it  repeatedly 
ever  since  I  promised  Mr.  Haydon  and 
could  not  help  the  delay  ;  which  I  regret. 
The  verses  can  be  struck  out  in  no  time, 
and  will  I  hope  be  quite  in  time.  If  you 


TO    BENJAMIN   ROBERT   HAYDON 


379 


think  it  at  all  necessary  a  proof  may  be  for- 
warded ;  but  as  I  shall  transcribe  it  fairly 
perhaps  there  may  be  no  need. 
I  am,  Sir,  your  obed*  Serv* 

JOHN  KEATS. 

110.    TO  FANNY  KEATS 

Wentworth  Place,  [June  14,  1819]. 

MY  DEAR  FANNY  —  I  cannot  be  with 
you  to-day  for  two  reasons  —  lly  I  have  my 
sore-throat  coming  again  to  prevent  my 
walking.  2ly  I  do  not  happen  just  at  pre- 
sent to  be  flush  of  silver  so  that  I  might 
ride.  To-morrow  I  am  engaged  —  but  the 
day  after  you  shall  see  me.  Mr.  Brown  is 
waiting  for  me  as  we  are  going  to  Town 
together,  so  good-bye. 

Your  affectionate  Brother  JOHN. 

111.      TO  THE   SAME 

Wentworth  Place  [June  16,  1819]. 
MY  DEAR  FANNY  —  Still  I  cannot  afford 
to  spend  money  by  Coachhire  and  still  my 
throat  is  not  well  enough  to  warrant  my 
walking.  I  went  yesterday  to  ask  Mr.  Ab- 
bey for  some  money  ;  but  I  could  not  on 
account  of  a  Letter  he  showed  me  from  my 
Aunt's  solicitor.  You  do  not  understand 
the  business.  I  trust  it  will  not  in  the  end 
be  detrimental  to  you.  I  am  going  to  try 
the  Press  once  more,  and  to  that  end  shall 
retire  to  live  cheaply  in  the  country  and 
compose  myself  and  verses  as  well  as  I  can. 
I  have  very  good  friends  ready  to  help  me 
—  and  I  am  the  more  bound  to  be  careful 
of  the  money  they  lend  me.  It  will  all  be 
well  in  the  course  of  a  year  I  hope.  I  am 
confident  of  it,  so  do  not  let  it  trouble  you 
at  all.  Mr.  Abbey  showed  me  a  Letter  he 
had  received  from  George  containing  the 
news  of  the  birth  of  a  Niece  for  us  —  and 
all  doing  well  —  he  said  he  would  take  it 
to  you  —  so  I  suppose  to-day  you  will  see 
it.  I  was  preparing  to  enquire  for  a  situa- 
tion with  an  apothecary,  but  Mr.  Brown 
persuades  me  to  try  the  press  once  more  ; 


so  I  will  with  all  my  industry  and  ability. 
Mr.  Rice  a  friend  of  mine  in  ill  health  has 
proposed  retiring  to  the  back  of  the  Isle  of 
Wight  —  which  I  hope  will  be  cheap  in  the 
summer  —  I  am  sure  it  will  in  the  winter. 
Thence  you  shall  frequently  hear  from  me 
in  the  Letters  I  will  copy  those  lines  I  may 
write  which  will  be  most  pleasing  to  you  in 
the  confidence  you  will  show  them  to  no 
one.  I  have  not  run  quite  aground  yet  I 
hope,  having  written  this  morning  to  several 
people  to  whom  I  have  lent  money  request- 
ing repayment.  I  shall  henceforth  shake 
off  my  indolent  fits,  and  among  other  re- 
formation be  more  diligent  in  writing  to 
you,  and  mind  you  always  answer  me.  I 
shall  be  obliged  to  go  out  of  towu  on  Satur- 
day and  shall  have  no  money  till  to-morrow, 
so  I  am  very  sorry  to  think  I  shall  not  be 
able  to  come  to  Walthamstow.  The  Head 
Mr.  Severn  did  of  me  is  now  too  dear,  but 
here  inclosed  is  a  very  capital  Profile  done 
by  Mr.  Brown.  I  will  write  again  on  Mon- 
day or  Tuesday  —  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Dilke  are 
well. 

Your  affectionate  Brother  JOHN . 

112.      TO  BENJAMIN  ROBERT  HAYDON 

Wentworth  Place. 
Thursday  Morning  [June  17,  1819]. 

MY  DEAR  HAYDON  —  I  know  you  will 
not  be  prepared  for  this,  because  your 
Pocket  must  needs  be  very  low  having  been 
at  ebb  tide  so  long  :  but  what  can  I  do  ? 
mine  is  lower.  I  was  the  day  before  yes- 
terday much  in  want  of  Money  :  but  some 
news  I  had  yesterday  has  driven  me  into 
necessity.  I  went  to  Abbey's  for  some 
Cash,  and  he  put  into  my  hand  a  letter 
from  my  Aunt's  Solicitor  containing  the 
pleasant  information  that  she  was  about  to 
file  a  Bill  in  Chancery  against  us.  Now  in 
case  of  a  defeat  Abbey  will  be  very  unde- 
servedly in  the  wrong  box  ;  so  I  could  not 
ask  him  for  any  more  money,  nor  can  I  till 
the  affair  is  decided ;  and  if  it  goes  against 
him  I  must  in  conscience  make  over  to  him 


38o 


LETTERS   OF   JOHN   KEATS 


what  little  he  may  have  remaining.  My 
purpose  is  now  to  make  one  more  attempt 
in  the  Press  —  if  that  fail,  *  ye  hear  no 
more  of  me '  as  Chaucer  says.  Brown  has 
lent  me  some  money  for  the  present.  Do 
borrow  or  beg  somehow  what  you  can  for 
me.  Do  not  suppose  I  am  at  all  uncom- 
fortable about  the  matter  in  any  other  way 
than  as  it  forces  me  to  apply  to  the  needy. 
I  could  not  send  you  those  lines,  for  I  could 
not  get  the  only  copy  of  them  before  last 
Saturday  evening.  I  sent  them  Mr.  Elmes 
on  Monday.  I  saw  Monkhouse  on  Sunday 
—  he  told  me  you  were  getting  on  with  the 
Picture.  I  would  have  come  over  to  you 
to-day,  but  I  am  fully  employed. 

Yours  ever  sincerely        JOHN  KEATS. 

113.      TO  FANNY  BBAWNE 

Shanklin,  Isle  of  Wight,  Thursday, 
[Postmark,  Newport,  July  3, 1819]. 

MY  DEAREST  LADY  —  I  am  glad  I  had 
not  an  opportunity  of  sending  off  a  Letter 
which  I  wrote  for  you  on  Tuesday  night  — 
't  was  too  much  like  one  out  of  Rousseau's 
Heloise.  I  am  more  reasonable  this  morn- 
ing. The  morning  is  the  only  proper  time 
for  me  to  write  to  a  beautiful  Girl  whom  I 
love  so  much:  for  at  night,  when  the  lonely 
day  has  closed,  and  the  lonely,  silent,  un- 
musical Chamber  is  waiting  to  receive  me 
as  into  a  Sepulchre,  then  believe  me  my 
passion  gets  entirely  the  sway,  then  I  would 
not  have  you  see  those  Rhapsodies  which  I 
once  thought  it  impossible  I  should  ever 
give  way  to,  and  which  I  have  often 
laughed  at  in  another,  for  fear  you  should 
[think  me]  either  too  unhappy  or  perhaps 
a  little  mad.  I  am  now  at  a  very  pleasant 
Cottage  window,  looking  onto  a  beautiful 
hilly  country,  with  a  glimpse  of  the  sea  ; 
the  morning  is  very  fine.  I  do  not  know 
how  elastic  my  spirit  might  be,  what  plea- 
sure I  might  have  in  living  here  and  breath- 
ing and  wandering  as  free  as  a  stag  about 
this  beautiful  Coast  if  the  remembrance  of 
you  did  not  weigh  so  upon  me.  I  have 


never  known  any  unalloy'd  Happiness  for 
many  days  together  :  the  death  or  sickness 
of  some  one  has  always  spoilt  my  hours  — 
and  now  when  none  such  troubles  oppress 
me,  it  is  you  must  confess  very  hard  that 
another  sort  of  pain  should  haunt  me.  Ask 
yourself  my  love  whether  you  are  not  very 
cruel  to  have  so  entrammelled  me,  so  de- 
stroyed my  freedom.  Will  you  confess 
this  in  the  Letter  you  must  write  immedi- 
ately and  do  all  you  can  to  console  me  in 
it  —  make  it  rich  as  a  draught  of  poppies 
to  intoxicate  me  —  write  the  softest  words 
and  kiss  them  that  I  may  at  least  touch  my 
lips  where  yours  have  been.  For  myself  I 
know  not  how  to  express  my  devotion  to  so 
fair  a  form  :  I  want  a  brighter  word  than 
bright,  a  fairer  word  than  fair.  I  almost 
wish  we  were  butterflies  and  liv'd  but  three 
summer  days  —  three  such  days  with  you  I 
could  fill  with  more  delight  than  fifty  com- 
mon years  could  ever  contain.  But  how- 
ever selfish  I  may  feel,  I  am  sure  I  could 
never  act  selfishly  :  as  I  told  you  a  day  or 
two  before  I  left  Hampstead,  I  will  never 
return  to  London  if  my  Fate  does  not  turn 
up  Pam  or  at  least  a  Court-card.  Though 
I  could  centre  my  Happiness  in  you,  I  can- 
not expect  to  engross  your  heart  so  en- 
tirely —  indeed  if  I  thought  you  felt  as 
much  for  me  as  I  do  for  you  at  this  mo- 
ment I  do  not  think  I  could  restrain  myself 
from  seeing  you  again  tomorrow  for  the 
delight  of  one  embrace.  But  no  —  I  must 
live  upon  hope  and  Chance.  In  case  of  the 
worst  that  can  happen,  I  shall  still  love 
you  —  but  what  hatred  shall  I  have  for 
another  !  Some  lines  I  read  the  other  day 
are  continually  ringing  a  peal  in  my  ears  : 

To  see  those  eyes  I  prize  above  mine  own 
Dart  favors  on  another  — 

And  those  sweet  lips  (yielding  immortal  nectar) 
Be  gently  press'd  by  any  but  myself  — 
Think,  think  Francesca,  what  a  cursed  thing 
It  were  beyond  expression ! 

J. 

Do  write  immediately.  There  is  no  Post 
from  this  Place,  so  you  must  address  Post 


TO   FANNY   KEATS 


Office,  Newport,  Isle  of  Wight.  I  know 
before  night  I  shall  curse  myself  for  hav- 
ing sent  you  so  cold  a  Letter  ;  yet  it  is 
better  to  do  it  as  much  in  my  senses  as 
possible.  Be  as  kind  as  the  distance  will 
permit  to  your 

J.  KEATS. 

Present  my  Compliments  to  your  mother, 
my  love  to  Margaret  and  best  remem- 
brances to  your  Brother  —  if  you  please  so. 

114.      TO  FANNY  KEATS 

Shanklin,  Isle  of  Wight, 
Tuesday,  July  6,  [1819], 

MY  DEAR  FANNY  —  I  have  just  received 
another  Letter  from  George  —  full  of  as 
good  news  as  we  can  expect.  I  cannot  in- 
close it  to  you  as  I  could  wish  because  it 
contains  matters  of  Business  to  which  I 
must  for  a  Week  to  come  have  an  immedi- 
ate reference.  I  think  I  told  you  the  pur- 
pose for  which  I  retired  to  this  place  —  to 
try  the  fortune  of  my  Pen  once  more,  and 
indeed  I  have  some  confidence  in  my  suc- 
cess: but  in  every  event,  believe  me  my 
dear  sister,  I  shall  be  sufficiently  comfort- 
able, as,  if  I  cannot  lead  that  life  of  com- 
petence and  society  I  should  wish,  I  have 
enough  knowledge  of  my  gallipots  to  ensure 
me  an  employment  and  maintenance.  The 
Place  I  am  in  now  I  visited  once  before 
and  a  very  pretty  place  it  is  were  it  not  for 
the  bad  weather.  Our  window  looks  over 
house-tops  and  Cliffs  onto  the  Sea,  so  that 
when  the  Ships  sail  past  the  Cottage  chim- 
neys you  may  take  them  for  weathercocks. 
We  have  Hill  and  Dale,  forest  and  Mead, 
and  plenty  of  Lobsters.  I  was  on  the  Ports- 
mouth Coach  the  Sunday  before  last  in 
that  heavy  shower  —  and  I  may  say  I  went 
to  Portsmouth  by  water  —  I  got  a  little 
cold,  and  as  it  always  flies  to  my  throat  I 
am  a  little  out  of  sorts  that  way.  There 
were  on  the  Coach  with  me  some  common 
French  people  but  very  well  behaved  — 
there  was  a  woman  amongst  them  to  whom 
the  poor  Men  in  ragged  coats  were  more 


gallant  than  ever  I  saw  gentleman  to  Lady 
at  a  Ball.  When  we  got  down  to  walk  up 
hill  — one  of  them  pick'd  a  rose,  and  on 
remounting  gave  it  to  the  woman  with 
'  Ma'mselle  voila  une  belle  rose  ! '  I  am  so 
hard  at  work  that  perhaps  I  should  not 
have  written  to  you  for  a  day  or  two  if 
George's  Letter  had  not  diverted  my  atten- 
tion to  the  interests  and  pleasure  of  those  I 
love  —  and  ever  believe  that  when  I  do  not 
behave  punctually  it  is  from  a  very  neces- 
sary occupation,  and  that  my  silence  is  no 
proof  of  my  not  thinking  of  you,  or  that  I 
want  more  than  a  gentle  fillip  to  bring  your 
image  with  every  claim  before  me.  You 
have  never  seen  mountains,  or  I  might  tell 
you  that  the  hill  at  Steephill  is  I  think 
almost  of  as  much  consequence  as  Mount 
Rydal  on  Lake  Winander.  Bonchurch  too 
is  a  very  delightful  Place  —  as  I  can  see 
by  the  Cottages,  all  romantic  —  covered 
with  creepers  and  honeysuckles,  with  roses 
and  eglantines  peeping  in  at  the  windows. 
Fit  abodes  for  the  People  I  guess  live  in 
them,  romantic  old  maids  fond  of  novels, 
or  soldiers'  widows  with  a  pretty  jointure 
—  or  any  body's  widows  or  aunts  or  any- 
things  given  to  Poetry  and  a  Piano-forte  — 
as  far  as  in  'em  lies  —  as  people  say.  If  I 
could  play  upon  the  Guitar  I  might  make 
my  fortune  with  an  old  song — and  get  two 
blessings  at  once  —  a  Lady's  heart  and  the 
Rheumatism.  But  I  am  almost  afraid  to 
peep  at  those  little  windows  —  for  a  pretty 
window  should  show  a  pretty  face,  and  as 
the  world  goes  chances  are  against  me.  I 
am  living  with  a  very  good  fellow  indeed, 
a  Mr.  Rice.  —  He  is  unfortunately  labour- 
ing under  a  complaint  which  has  for  some 
years  been  a  burthen  to  him.  This  is  a  pain 
to  me.  He  has  a  greater  tact  in  speaking 
to  people  of  the  village  than  I  have,  and  in 
those  matters  is  a  great  amusement  as  well 
as  good  friend  to  me.  He  bought  a  ham 
the  other  day  for  says  he  *  Keats,  I  don't 
think  a  Ham  is  a  wrong  thing  to  have  in  a 
house.'  Write  to  me,  Shanklin,  Isle  of 
Wight,  as  soon  as  you  can  ;  for  a  Letter  is 


LETTERS   OF   JOHN   KEATS 


a  great  treat  to  me  here  —  believing  me 
ever, 

Your  affectionate  Brother  JOHN . 

115.      TO  FANNY  BRAWNE 

July  8,  [1819]. 

MY  SWEET  GIRL  —  Your  Letter  gave  me 
more  delight  than  any  thing  in  the  world 
Imt  yourself  could  do;  indeed  I  am  almost 
astonished  that  any  absent  one  should  have 
that  luxurious  power  over  my  senses  which 
I  feel.  Even  when  I  am  not  thinking  of 
you  I  receive  your  influence  and  a  tenderer 
nature  stealing  upon  me.  All  my  thoughts, 
my  unhappiest  days  and  nights,  have  I  find 
not  at  all  cured  me  of  my  love  of  Beauty, 
but  made  it  so  intense  that  I  am  miserable 
that  you  are  not  with  me :  or  rather  breathe 
in  that  dull  sort  of  patience  that  cannot  be 
called  Life.  I  never  knew  before,  what 
such  a  love  as  you  have  made  me  feel,  was ; 
I  did  not  believe  in  it;  my  Fancy  was 
afraid  of  it,  lest  it  should  burn  me  up. 
But  if  you  will  fully  love  me,  though  there 
may  be  some  fire,  't  will  not  be  more  than 
we  can  bear  when  moistened  and  bedewed 
with  Pleasures.  You  mention  '  horrid  peo- 
ple '  and  ask  me  whether  it  depend  upon 
them  whether  I  see  you  again.  Do  under- 
stand me,  my  love,  in  this.  I  have  so  much 
of  you  in  my  heart  that  I  must  turn  Men- 
tor when  I  see  a  chance  of  harm  befalling 
you.  I  would  never  see  any  thing  but 
Pleasure  in  your  eyes,  love  on  your  lips, 
and  Happiness  in  your  steps.  I  would  wish 
to  see  you  among  those  amusements  suit- 
able to  your  inclinations  and  spirits;  so 
that  our  loves  might  be  a  delight  in  the 
midst  of  Pleasures  agreeable  enough,  rather 
than  a  resource  from  vexations  and  cares. 
But  I  doubt  much,  in  case  of  the  worst, 
whether  I  shall  be  philosopher  enough  to 
follow  my  own  Lessons:  if  I  saw  my  reso- 
lution give  you  a  pain  I  could  not.  Why 
may  I  not  speak  of  your  Beauty,  since 

without  that  I  could  never  have  lov'd  you  ? 

—  I  cannot  conceive  any  beginning  of  such 


love  as  I  have  for  you  but  Beauty.  There 
may  be  a  sort  of  love  for  which,  without 
the  least  sneer  at  it,  I  have  the  highest 
respect  and  can  admire  it  in  others  :  but  it 
has  not  the  richness,  the  bloom,  the  full 
form,  the  enchantment  of  love  after  my 
own  heart.  So  let  me  speak  of  your  Beauty, 
though  to  my  own  endangering;  if  you  could 
be  so  cruel  to  me  as  to  try  elsewhere  its 
Power.  You  say  you  are  afraid  I  shall 
think  you  do  not  love  me  —  in  saying  this 
you  make  me  ache  the  more  to  be  near  you. 
I  am  at  the  diligent  use  of  my  faculties 
here,  I  do  not  pass  a  day  without  sprawling 
some  blank  verse  or  tagging  some  rhymes; 
and  here  I  must  confess,  that  (since  I  am 
on  that  subject)  I  love  you  the  more  in 
that  I  believe  you  have  liked  me  for  my 
own  sake  and  for  nothing  else.  I  have  met 
with  women  whom  I  really  think  would 
like  to  be  married  to  a  Poem  and  to  be 
given  away  by  a  Novel.  I  have  seen  your 
Comet,  and  only  wish  it  was  a  sign  that 
poor  Rice  would  get  well  whose  illness 
makes  him  rather  a  melancholy  companion: 
and  the  more  so  as  to  conquer  his  feelings 
and  hide  them  from  me,  with  a  forc'd 
Pun.  I  kiss'd  your  writing  over  in  the 
hope  you  had  indulg'd  me  by  leaving  a 
trace  of  honey.  What  was  your  dream  ? 
Tell  it  me  and  I  will  tell  you  the  inter- 
pretation thereof. 

Ever  yours,  my  love  ! 

JOHN  KEATS. 

Do  not  accuse  me  of  delay — we  have 
not  here  an  opportunity  of  sending  letters 
every  day.  Write  speedily. 

116.      TO  JOHN  HAMILTON  REYNOLDS 

Extract  from  a  letter  dated  Shanklin, 
nr  Ryde,  Isle  of  Wight,  Sunday, 
July  12  [for  11]  1819. 

You  will  be  glad  to  hear,  under  my  own 
hand  (though  Rice  says  we  are  like  Saun- 
tering Jack  and  Idle  Joe),  how  diligent  I 
have  been,  and  am  being.  I  have  finished 


TO  FANNY  BRAWNE 


383 


the  Act,  \_0iho  the  Great,  7]  and  in  the  inter- 
val of  beginning  the  2d  have  proceeded 
pretty  well  with  Lamia,  finishing  the  I81 
part  which  consists  of  about  400  lines.  I 
have  great  hopes  of  success,  because  I  make 
use  of  my  Judgment  more  deliberately  than 
I  have  yet  done;  but  in  case  of  failure  with 
the  world,  I  shall  find  my  content.  And 
here  (as  I  know  you  have  my  good  at  heart 
as  much  as  a  Brother),  I  can  only  repeat  to 
you  what  I  have  said  to  George  —  that 
however  I  should  like  to  enjoy  what  the 
competencies  of  life  procure,  I  am  in  no 
wise  dashed  at  a  different  prospect.  I 
have  spent  too  many  thoughtful  days  and 
moralised  through  too  many  nights  for 
that,  and  fruitless  would  they  be  indeed,  if 
they  did  not  by  degrees  make  me  look  upon 
the  affairs  of  the  world  with  a  healthy  de- 
libration.  I  have  of  late  been  moulting  : 
not  for  fresh  feathers  and  wings  :  they  are 
gone,  and  in  their  stead  I  hope  to  have  a 
pair  of  patient  sublunary  legs.  I  have  al- 
tered, not  from  a  Chrysalis  into  a  butterfly, 
but  the  contrary  ;  having  two  little  loop- 
holes, whence  I  may  look  out  into  the  stage 
of  the  world:  and  that  world  on  our  coming 
here  I  almost  forgot.  The  first  time  I  sat 
down  to  write,  I  could  scarcely  believe  in  the 
necessity  for  so  doing.  It  struck  me  as  a 
great  oddity  —  Yet  the  very  corn  which  is 
now  so  beautiful,  as  if  it  had  only  took  to 
ripening  yesterday,  is  for  the  market  ;  so, 
why  should  I  be  delicate  ? 


117.      TO  FANNY  BRAWNE 

Shanklin,  Thursday  Evening 
[July  15,  1819?] 

MY  LOVE  —  I  have  been  in  so  irritable 
a  state  of  health  these  two  or  three  last 
days,  that  I  did  not  think  I  should  be  able 
to  write  this  week.  Not  that  I  was  so  ill, 
but  so  much  so  as  only  to  be  capable  of  an 
unhealthy  teasing  letter.  To  night  I  am 
greatly  recovered  only  to  feel  the  languor 
I  have  felt  after  you  touched  with  ardency. 


You  say  you  perhaps  might  have  made  me 
better:  you  would  then  have  made  me  worse : 
now  you  could  quite  effect  a  cure  :  What 
|  fee  my  sweet  Physician  would  I  not  give 
I  you  to  do  so.  Do  not  call  it  folly,  when  I 
!  tell  you  I  took  your  letter  last  night  to  bed 
,  with  me.  In  the  morning  I  found  your 
name  on  the  sealing  wax  obliterated.  I 
was  startled  at  the  bad  omen  till  I  recol- 
lected that  it  must  have  happened  in  my 
dreams,  and  they  you  know  fall  out  by  con- 
traries. You  must  have  found  out  by  this 
time  I  am  a  little  given  to  bode  ill  like  the 
raven;  it  is  my  misfortune  not  my  fault;  it 
has  proceeded  from  the  general  tenor  of 
the  circumstances  of  my  life,  and  rendered 
every  event  suspicious.  However  I  will  no 
more  trouble  either  you  or  myself  with  sad 
prophecies  ;  though  so  far  I  am  pleased  at 
it  as  it  has  given  me  opportunity  to  love 
your  disinterestedness  towards  me.  I  can 
be  a  raven  no  more  ;  you  and  pleasure 
take  possession  of  me  at  the  same  moment. 
I  am  afraid  you  have  been  unwell.  If 
through  me  illness  have  touched  you  (but 
it  must  be  with  a  very  gentle  hand)  I  must 
be  selfish  enough  to  feel  a  little  glad  at  it. 
Will  you  forgive  me  this?  I  have  been 
reading  lately  an  oriental  tale  of  a  very 
beautiful  color  52  —  It  is  of  a  city  of  melan- 
choly men,  all  made  so  by  this  circum- 
stance. Through  a  series  of  adventures 
each  one  of  them  by  turns  reach  some  gar- 
dens of  Paradise  where  they  meet  with 
a  most  enchanting  Lady;  and  just  as  they 
are  going  to  embrace  her,  she  bids  them 
shut  their  eyes  —  they  shut  them  —  and  on 
opening  their  eyes  again  find  themselves 
descending  to  the  earth  in  a  magic  basket. 
The  remembrance  of  this  Lady  and  their 
delights  lost  beyond  all  recovery  render 
them  melancholy  ever  after.  How  I  ap- 
plied this  to  you,  my  dear  ;  how  I  palpi- 
tated at  it ;  how  the  certainty  that  you 
were  in  the  same  world  with  myself,  and 
though  as  beautiful,  not  so  talismanic  as 
that  Lady ;  how  I  could  not  bear  you  should 
be  so  you  must  believe  because  I  swear  it 


LETTERS    OF   JOHN    KEATS 


by  yourself.  I  cannot  say  when  I  shall  get 
a  volume  ready.  I  have  three  or  four 
stories  half  done,  but  as  I  cannot  write  for 
the  mere  sake  of  the  press,  I  am  obliged  to 
let  them  progress  or  lie  still  as  my  fancy 
chooses.  By  Christmas  perhaps  they  may 
appear,  but  I  am  not  yet  sure  they  ever 
will.  'T  will  be  no  matter,  for  Poems  are 
as  common  as  newspapers  and  I  do  not  see 
why  it  is  a  greater  crime  in  me  than  in  an- 
other to  let  the  verses  of  an  half-fledged 
brain  tumble  into  the  reading-rooms  and 
drawing  -  room  windows.  Rice  has  been 
better  lately  than  usual:  he  is  not  suffering 
from  any  neglect  of  his  parents  who  have 
for  some  years  been  able  to  appreciate  him 
better  than  they  did  in  his  first  youth,  and 
are  now  devoted  to  his  comfort.  Tomorrow 
I  shall,  if  my  health  continues  to  improve 
during  the  night,  take  a  look  fa[r]ther 
About  the  country,  and  spy  at  the  parties 
.about  here  who  come  hunting  after  the 
picturesque  like  beagles.  It  is  astonishing 
iow  they  raven  down  scenery  like  children 
do  sweetmeats.  The  wondrous  Chine  here 
as  a  very  great  Lion:  I  wish  I  had  as  many 
guineas  as  there  have  been  spy-glasses  in 
it.  I  have  been,  I  cannot  tell  why,  in  capi- 
tal spirits  this  last  hour.  What  reason? 
When  I  have  to  take  my  candle  and  retire 
to  a  lonely  room,  without  the  thought  as  I 
fall  asleep,  of  seeing  you  tomorrow  morn- 
ing ?  or  the  next  day,  or  the  next  —  it 
takes  on  the  appearance  of  impossibility 
and  eternity  —  I  will  say  a  month  —  I  will 
say  I  will  see  you  in  a  month  at  most, 
though  no  one  but  yourself^  should  see  me  ; 
if  it  be  but  for  an  hour.  I  should  not  like 
to  be  so  near  you  as  London  without  being 
continually  with  you  :  after  having  once 
more  kissed  you  Sweet  I  would  rather  be 
here  alone  at  my  task  than  in  the  bustle 
and  hateful  literary  chitchat.  Meantime 
you  must  write  to  me  —  as  I  will  every 
week  —  for  your  letters  keep  me  alive.  My 
sweet  Girl  I  cannot  speak  my  love  for  you. 
Good  night !  and 

Ever  yours  JOHN  KEATS. 


118.      TO   THE   SAME 

Sunday  Night.  [Postmark,  July  27,  1819.] 
MY  SWEET  GIRL  —  I  hope  you  did  not 
blame  me  much  for  not  obeying  your  re- 
quest of  a  Letter  on  Saturday  :  we  have 
had  four  in  our  small  room  playing  at  cards 
night  and  morning  leaving  me  no  undis- 
turb'd  opportunity  to  write.  Now  Rice  and 
Martin  are  gone  I  am  at  liberty.  Brown  to 
my  sorrow  confirms  the  account  you  give  of 
your  ill  health.  You  cannot  conceive  how 
I  ache  to  be  with  you:  how  I  would  die  for 

one  hour for  what  is  in  the  world  ?     I 

say  you  cannot  conceive  ;  it  is  impossible 
you  should  look  with  such  eyes  upon  me  as 
I  have  upon  you:  it  cannot  be.  Forgive  me 
if  I  wander  a  little  this  evening,  for  I  have 
been  all  day  employ'd  in  a  very  abstract 
Poem  and  I  am  in  deep  love  with  you  — 
two  things  which  must  excuse  me.  I  have, 
believe  me,  not  been  an  age  in  letting  you 
take  possession  of  me;  the  very  first  week 
I  knew  you  I  wrote  myself  your  vassal; 
but  burnt  the  Letter  as  the  very  next  time 
I  saw  you  I  thought  you  manifested  some 
dislike  to  me.  If  you  should  ever  feel  for 
Man  at  the  first  sight  what  I  did  for  you, 
I  am  lost.  Yet  I  should  not  quarrel  with 
you,  but  hate  myself  if  such  a  thing  were 
to  happen  —  only  I  should  burst  if  the  thing 
were  not  as  fine  as  a  Man  as  you  are  as  a 
Woman.  Perhaps  I  am  too  vehement,  then 
fancy  me  on  my  knees,  especially  when  I 
mention  a  part  of  your  Letter  which  hurt 
me;  you  say  speaking  of  Mr.  Severn  'but 
you  must  be  satisfied  in  knowing  that  I 
admired  you  much  more  than  your  friend.' 
My  dear  love,  I  cannot  believe  there  ever 
was  or  ever  could  be  any  thing  to  admire 
in  me  especially  as  far  as  sigh't  goes  —  I 
cannot  be  admired,  I  am  riot  a  thing  to  be 
admired.  You  are,  I  love  you;  all  I  can 
bring  you  is  a  swooning  admiration  of  your 
Beauty.  I  hold  that  place  among  Men 
which  snub-nos'd  brunettes  with  meeting 
eyebrows  do  among  women  —  they  are 
trash  to  me  —  unless  I  should  find  one 


TO   CHARLES   WENTWORTH   DILKE 


385 


among  them  with  a  fire  in  her  heart  like 
the  one  that  burns  in  mine.  You  absorb 
me  in  spite  of  myself  —  you  alone:  for  I 
look  not  forward  with  any  pleasure  to  what 
is  calPd  being  settled  in  the  world ;  I  trem- 
ble at  domestic  cares — yet  for  you  I  would 
meet  them,  though  if  it  would  leave  you 
the  happier  I  would  rather  die  than  do  so. 
I  have  two  luxuries  to  brood  over  in  my 
walks,  your  Loveliness  and  the  hour  of  my 
death.  O  that  I  could  have  possession  of 
them  both  in  the  same  minute.  I  hate  the 
world:  it  batters  too  much  the  wings  of  my 
self-will,  and  would  I  could  take  a  sweet 
poison  from  your  lips  to  send  me  out  of  it. 
From  no  others  would  I  take  it.  I  am  in- 
deed astonish'd  to  find  myself  so  careless 
of  all  charms  but  yours  —  remembering  as 
I  do  the  time  when  even  a  bit  of  ribband 
was  a  matter  of  interest  with  me.  What 
softer  words  can  I  find  for  you  after  this — 
what  it  is  I  will  not  read.  Nor  will  I  say 
more  here,  but  in  a  Postscript  answer  any 
thing  else  you  may  have  mentioned  in  your 
Letter  in  so  many  words  —  for  I  am  dis- 
tracted with  a  thousand  thoughts.  I  will 
imagine  you  Venus  tonight  and  pray,  pray, 
pray  to  your  star  like  a  Heathen. 

Your's  ever,  fair  Star,     JOHN  KEATS. 

My  seal  is  mark'd  like  a  family  table 
cloth  with  my  Mother's  initial  F  for  Fanny: 
put  between  my  Father's  initials.  You  will 
soon  hear  from  me  again.  My  respectful 
Compliments  to  your  Mother.  Tell  Mar- 
garet I  '11  send  her  a  reef  of  best  rocks 
and  tell  Sam  I  will  give  him  my  light  bay 
hunter  if  he  will  tie  the  Bishop  hand  and 
foot  and  pack  him  in  a  hamper  and  send 
him  down  for  me  to  bathe  him  for  his 
health  with  a  Necklace  of  good  snubby 
stones  about  his  Neck. 

119.      TO   CHARLES  WENTWORTH  DILKE 

Shanklin,  Saturday  Evening  [July  31, 1819]. 
MY  DEAR  DILKE  —  I  will  not  make  my 
diligence  an  excuse  for  not  writing  to  you 


sooner  —  because  I  consider  idleness  a 
much  better  plea.  A  Man  in  the  hurry  of 
business  of  any  sort  is  expected  and  ought 
to  be  expected  to  look  to  everything  — 
his  mind  is  in  a  whirl,  and  what  matters 
it  what  whirl  ?  But  to  require  a  Letter 
of  a  Man  lost  in  idleness  is  the  utmost 
cruelty  ;  you  cut  the  thread  of  his  exist- 
ence, you  beat,  you  pummel  him,  you  sell 
his  goods  and  chattels,  you  put  him  in 
prison  ;  you  impale  him  ;  you  crucify  him. 
If  I  had  not  put  pen  to  paper  since  I  saw 
you  this  would  be  to  me  a  vi  et  armis  tak- 
ing up  before  the  Judge  ;  but  having  got 
over  my  darling  lounging  habits  a  little,  it 
is  with  scarcely  any  pain  I  come  to  this 
dating  from  Shanklin  and  Dear  Dilke. 
The  Isle  of  Wight  is  but  so  so,  etc.  Rice 
and  I  passed  rather  a  dull  time  of  it.  I 
hope  he  will  not  repent  coming  with  me. 
He  was  unwell,  and  I  was  not  in  very  good 
health  :  and  I  am  afraid  we  made  each 
other  worse  by  acting  upon  each  other's 
spirits.  We  would  grow  as  melancholy  as 
need  be.  I  confess  I  cannot  bear  a  sick 
person  in  a  House,  especially  alone  —  it 
weighs  upon  me  day  and  night  —  and  more 
so  when  perhaps  the  Case  is  irretrijvable. 
Indeed  I  think  Rice  is  in  a  dangerous 
state.  I  have  had  a  Letter  from  him  which 
speaks  favourably  of  his  health  at  present. 
Brown  and  I  are  pretty  well  harnessed 
again  to  our  dog-cart.  I  mean  the  Tra- 
gedy, which  goes  on  sinkingly.  We  are 
thinking  of  introducing  an  Elephant,  but 
have  not  historical  reference  within  reach 
to  determine  us  as  to  Otho's  Menagerie. 
When  Brown  first  mentioned  this  I  took  it 
for  a  joke ;  however  he  brings  such  plausible 
reasons,  and  discourses  so  eloquently  on  the 
dramatic  effect  that  I  am  giving  it  a  seri- 
ous consideration.  The  Art  of  Poetry  is 
not  sufficient  for  us,  and  if  we  get  on  in 
that  as  well  as  we  do  in  painting,  we  shall 
by  next  winter  crush  the  Reviews  and 
the  Royal  Academy.  Indeed,  if  Brown 
would  take  a  little  of  my  advice,  he  could 
not  fail  to  be  first  palette  of  his  day.  But 


386 


LETTERS   OF   JOHN    KEATS 


odd  as  it  may  appear,  he  says  plainly  that  he 
cannot  see  any  force  in  my  plea  of  putting 
skies  in  the  background,  and  leaving  Indian 
ink  out  of  an  ash  tree.  The  other  day  he 
was  sketching  Shanklin  Church,  and  as  I 
saw  how  the  business  was  going  on,  I  chal- 
lenged him  to  a  trial  of  skill  —  he  lent  me 
Pencil  and  Paper  —  we  keep  the  Sketches 
to  contend  for  the  Prize  at  the  Gallery.  I 
will  not  say  whose  I  think  best  —  but  really 
I  do  not  think  Brown's  done  to  the  top  of 
the  Art. 

A  word  or  two  on  the  Isle  of  Wight.  I 
have  been  no  further  than  Steephill.  If  I 
may  guess,  I  should  say  that  there  is  no 
finer  part  in  the  Island  than  from  this 
Place  to  Steephill.  I  do  not  hesitate  to  say 
it  is  fine.  Bonchurch  is  the  best.  But  I 
have  been  so  many  finer  walks,  with  a  back- 
ground of  lake  and  mountain  instead  of  the 
sea,  that  I  am  not  much  touch'd  with  it, 
though  I  credit  it  for  all  the  Surprise  I 
should  have  felt  if  it  had  taken  my  cockney 
maidenhead.  But  I  may  call  myself  an  old 
Stager  in  the  picturesque,  and  unless  it  be 
something  very  large  and  overpowering,  I 
cannot  receive  any  extraordinary  relish. 

I  am  sorry  to  hear  that  Charles  is  so 
much  oppress'd  at  Westminster,  though  I 
am  sure  it  will  be  the  finest  touchstone  for 
his  Metal  in  the  world.  His  troubles  will 
grow  day  by  day  less,  as  his  age  and 
strength  increase.  The  very  first  Battle 
he  wins  will  lift  him  from  the  Tribe  of 
Manasseh.  I  do  not  know  how  I  should 
feel  were  I  a  Father  —  but  I  hope  I  should 
strive  with  all  my  Power  not  to  let  the 
present  trouble  me.  When  your  Boy  shall 
be  twenty,  ask  him  about  his  childish 
troubles  and  he  will  have  no  more  memory 
of  them  than  you  have  of  yours.  Brown 
tells  me  Mrs.  Dilke  sets  off  to-day  for 
Chichester.  I  am  glad  —  I  was  going  to 
say  she  had  a  fine  day  —  but  there  has 
been  a  great  Thunder  cloud  muttering  over 
Hampshire  all  day  —  I  hope  she  is  now  at 
supper  with  a  good  appetite. 

So   Reynolds's    Piece   succeeded  —  that 


is  all  well.  Papers  have  with  thanks  been 
duly  received.  Wre  leave  this  place  on  the 
13th,  and  will  let  you  know  where  we  may 
be  a  few  days  after  —  Brown  says  he  will 
write  when  the  fit  comes  on  him.  If  you 
will  stand  law  expenses  I  '11  beat  him  into 
one  before  his  time.  When  I  come  to  town 
I  shall  have  a  little  talk  with  you  about 
Brown  and  one  Jenny  Jacobs.  Open  day- 
light !  he  don't  care.  I  am  afraid  there 
will  be  some  more  feet  for  little  stockings 
—  [of  Keats 's  making.  (/  mean  the  feet.*)'] 
Brown  here  tried  at  a  piece  of  Wit  but  it 
failed  him,  as  you  see,  though  long  a  brew- 
ing —  [this  is  a  2d  lie.*~\  Men  should  never 
despair  —  you  see  he  has  tried  again  and 
succeeded  to  a  miracle.  —  He  wants  to  try 
again,  but  as  I  have  a  right  to  an  inside 
place  in  my  own  Letter  —  I  take  posses- 
sion. 

Your  sincere  friend         JOHN  KEATS. 

120.      TO  FANNY   BRAWNE 

Shanklin,  Thursday  Night. 
[Postmark,  Newport,  August  9, 1819.] 

MY  DEAR  GIRL  —  You  say  you  must  not 
have  any  more  such  Letters  as  the  last : 
I'll  try  that  you  shall  not  by  running 
obstinate  the  other  way.  Indeed  I  have 
not  fair  play  —  I  am  not  idle  enough  for 
proper  downright  love-letters — I  leave 
this  minute  a  scene  in  our  Tragedy  [Otho 
the  Great]  and  see  you  (think  it  not 
blasphemy)  through  the  mist  of  Plots, 
speeches,  counterplots  and  counterspeeches. 
The  Lover  is  madder  than  I  am  —  I  am 
nothing  to  him  —  he  has  a  figure  like  the 
Statue  of  Meleager  and  double  distilled 
fire  in  his  heart.  Thank  God  for  my  dili- 
gence !  were  it  not  for  that  I  should  be 
miserable.  I  encourage  it,  and  strive  not 
to  think  of  you  — but  when  I  have  suc- 
ceeded in  doing  so  all  day  and  as  far  as 
midnight,  you  return,  as  soon  as  this  arti- 
ficial excitement  goes  off,  more  severely 
from  the  fever  I  am  left  in.  Upon  my  soul 
*  The  bracketed  portions  are  by  Brown. 


TO    BENJAMIN    BAILEY 


337 


I  caimot  say  what  you  could  like  me  for. 
I  do  not  think  myself  a  fright  any  more 
than  I  do  Mr.  A.,  Mr.  B.,  and  Mr.  C.  — 
yet  if  I  were  a  woman  I  should  not  like  A. 
B.  C.  But  enough  of  this.  So  you  intend 
to  hold  me  to  my  promise  of  seeing  you  in 
a  short  time.  I  shall  keep  it  with  as  much 
sorrow  as  gladness  :  for  I  am  not  one  of  the 
Paladins  of  old  who  liv'd  upon  water  grass 
and  smiles  for  years  together.  What 
though  would  I  not  give  tonight  for  the 
gratification  of  my  eyes  alone  ?  This  day 
week  we  shall  move  to  Winchester  ;  for  I 
feel  the  want  of  a  Library.  Brown  will 
leave  me  there  to  pay  a  visit  to  Mr.  Snook 
at  Bedhampton  :  in  his  absence  I  will  flit 
to  you  and  back.  I  will  stay  very  little 
while,  for  as  I  am  in  a  train  of  writing  now 
I  fear  to  disturb  it  —  let  it  have  its 
course  bad  or  good  —  in  it  I  shall  try  my 
own  strength  and  the  public  pulse.  At 
Winchester  I  shall  get  your  Letters  more 
readily  ;  and  it  being  a  cathedral  City  I 
shall  have  a  pleasure  always  a  great  one  to 
me  when  near  a  Cathedral,  of  reading  them 
during  the  service  up  and  down  the  Aisle 

Friday  Morning.  —  Just  as  I  had  written 
thus  far  last  night,  Brown  came  down  in 
his  morning  coat  and  nightcap,  saying 
he  had  been  refresh'd  by  a  good  sleep  and 
was  very  hungry.  I  left  him  eating  and 
went  to  bed,  being  too  tired  to  enter  into 
any  discussions.  You  would  delight  very 
greatly  in  the  walks  about  here  ;  the  Cliffs, 
woods,  hills,  sands,  rocks  &c.  about  here. 
They  are  however  not  so  fine  but  I  shall 
give  them  a  hearty  good  bye  to  exchange 
them  for  my  Cathedral.  —  Yet  again  I  am 
not  so  tired  of  Scenery  as  to  hate  Switzer- 
land. We  might  spend  a  pleasant  year 
at  Berne  or  Zurich  —  if  it  should  please 
Venus  to  hear  my  'Beseech  thee  to  hear 
us  O  Goddess.'  And  if  she  should  hear, 
<xod  forbid  we  should  what  people  call, 
settle  —  turn  into  a  pond,  a  stagnant  Lethe 
—  a  vile  crescent,  row  or  buildings.  Better 
be  imprudent  moveables  than  prudent  fix- 


tures. Open  my  Mouth  at  the  Street 
door  like  the  Lion's  head  at  Venice  to  re- 
ceive  hateful  cards,  letters,  messages.  Go 
out  and  wither  at  tea  parties  ;  freeze  at 
dinners  ;  bake  at  dances  ;  simmer  at  routs. 
No  my  love,  trust  yourself  to  me  and  I 
will  find  you  nobler  amusements,  fortune 
favouring.  I  fear  you  will  not  receive  this 
till  Sunday  or  Monday  :  as  the  Irishman 
would  write  do  not  in  the  meanwhile  hate 
me.  I  long  to  be  off  for  Winchester,  for  I 
begin  to  dislike  the  very  door-posts  here  — 
the  names,  the  pebbles.  You  ask  after  my 
health,  not  telling  me  whether  you  are  bet- 
ter. I  am  quite  well.  Your  going  out  is  no 
proof  that  you  are  :  how  is  it  ?  Late  hours 
will  do  you  great  harm.  What  fairing  is 
it  ?  I  was  alone  for  a  couple  of  days  while 
Brown  went  gadding  over  the  country  with 
his  ancient  knapsack.  Now  I  like  his 
society  as  well  as  any  Man's,  yet  regretted 
his  return  —  it  broke  in  upon  me  like  a 
Thunderbolt.  I  had  got  in  a  dream  among 
my  Books  —  really  luxuriating  in  a  solitude 
and  silence  you  alone  should  have  disturb'd. 
Your  ever  affectionate  JOHN  KEATS. 


121.      TO  BENJAMIN  BAILEY 

[Fragment  (outside  sheet)  of  a  letter  addressed 
to  Bailey  at  St.  Andrews. 

Winchester,  August  15, 1819]. 

We  removed  to  Winchester  for  the  con- 
venience of  a  library,  and  find  it  an  exceed- 
ing pleasant  town,  enriched  with  a  beautiful 
Cathedral  and  surrounded  by  a  fresh-look- 
ing country.  We  are  in  tolerably  good 
and  cheap  lodgings  —  Within  these  two 
months  I  have  written  1500  lines,  most  of 
which,  besides  many  more  of  prior  com- 
position, you  will  probably  see  by  next  win- 
ter. I  have  written  2  tales,  one  from 
Boccaccio,  called  the  Pot  of  Basil,  and  an- 
other called  St.  Agnes's  Eve,  on  a  popular 
Superstition,  and  a  3rd  called  Lamia  (half 
finished).  I  have  also  been  writing  parts  of 
my  '  Hyperion,'  and  completed  4  Acts  of  a 


388 


LETTERS    OF   JOHN    KEATS 


tragedy.  It  was  the  opinion  of  most  of  my 
friends  that  I  should  never  be  able  to  write 
a  scene.  I  will  endeavour  to  wipe  away 
the  prejudice  —  I  sincerely  hope  you  will 
be  pleased  when  my  labours,  since  we  last 
saw  each  other,  shall  reach  you.  One  of 
my  Ambitions  is  to  make  as  great  a  revolu- 
tion in  modern  dramatic  writing  as  Kean 
has  done  in  acting.  Another  to  upset 
the  drawling  of  the  blue-stocking  literary 
world  —  if  in  the  Course  of  a  few  years  I 
do  these  two  things,  I  ought  to  die  content, 
and  my  friends  should  drink  a  dozen  of 
claret  on  my  tomb.  I  am  convinced  more 
and  more  every  day  that  (excepting  the 
human  friend  philosopher),  a  fine  writer 
is  the  most  genuine  being  in  the  world. 
Shakspeare  and  the  Paradise  lost  every  day 
become  greater  wonders  to  me.  I  look 
upon  fine  phrases  like  a  lover.  I  was  glad 
to  see  by  a  passage  of  one  of  Brown's  let- 
ters, some  time  ago,  from  the  North  that 
you  were  in  such  good  spirits.  Since  that 
you  have  been  married,  and  in  congratu- 
lating you  I  wish  you  every  continuance 
of  them.  Present  my  respects  to  Mrs. 
Bailey.  This  sounds  oddly  to  me,  and  I 
daresay  I  do  it  awkwardly  enough :  but  I 
suppose  by  this  time  it  is  nothing  new  to 
you.  Brown's  remembrances  to  you.  As 
far  as  I  know,  we  shall  remain  at  Win- 
chester for  a  goodish  while. 
Ever  your  sincere  friend 

JOHN  KEATS. 


122.      TO  FANNY  BBAWNB 

Winchester,  August  17th. 
[Postmark,  August  16, 1819.] 

MY  DEAR  GIRL  —  what  shall  I  say  for 
myself  ?  I  have  been  here  four  days  and 
not  jet  written  you  —  't  is  true  I  have  had 
many  teasing  letters  of  business  to  dismiss 
—  and  I  have  been  in  the  Claws,  like  a  ser- 
pent in  an  Eagle's,  of  the  last  act  of  our 
Tragedy.  This  is  no  excuse  ;  I  know  it ; 
I  do  not  presume  to  offer  it.  I  have  no 


right  either  to  ask  a  speedy  answer  to  let 
me  know  how  lenient  you  are  —  I  must  re- 
main some  days  in  a  Mist  —  I  see  you 
through  a  Mist  :  as  I  daresay  you  do  me  by 
this  time.  Believe  in  the  first  Letters  I 
wrote  you  :  I  assure  you  I  felt  as  I  wrote  — 
I  could  not  write  so  now.  The  thousand 
images  I  have  had  pass  through  my  brain 

—  my  uneasy  spirits  —  my  unguess'd  fate 

—  all  spread  as   a   veil  between   me   and 
you.    Remember  I  have  had  no  idle  leisure 
to  brood  over  you  —  't  is  well  perhaps   I 
have  not.     I  could  not  have  endured  the 
throng  of  jealousies  that  used  to  haunt  me 
before  I  had  plunged  so  deeply  into  imagi- 
nary interests.     I  would  fain,  as  my  sails 
are  set,  sail  on  without  an  interruption  for 
a  Brace  of  Months  longer  —  I  am  in  com- 
plete cue  —  in  the  fever  ;  and  shall  in  these 
four  Months  do   an  immense  deal.     This 
Page  as  my  eye  skims  over  it  I  see  is  ex- 
cessively  unloverlike    and    ungallant  —  I 
cannot  help  it  —  I  am  no  officer  in  yawning 
quarters  ;  no  Parson-Romeo.     My  Mind  is 
heap'd  to  the  full  ;  stuff'd   like  a  cricket 
ball  —  if  I  strive  to  fill  it  more  it  would 
burst.     I  know  the  generality  of  women 
would  hate  me  for  this  ;  that  I  should  have 
so  unsoften'd,  so  hard  a  Mind  as  to  forget 
them  ;  forget  the  brightest  realities  for  the 
dull  imaginations  of  my  own  Brain.     But 
I  conjure  you  to  give  it   a  fair  thinking  ; 
and  ask  yourself  whether  't  is  not  better  to 
explain  my  feelings  to  you,  than  write  ar- 
tificial Passion.  —  Besides,  you  would  see 
through  it.     It  would  be  vain  to  strive  to 
deceive  you.     'T  is  harsh,  harsh,  I  know  it. 
My  heart   seems   now  made   of   iron  —  I 
could  not  write  a  proper  answer  to  an  invi- 
tation to  Idalia.     You  are  my  Judge  :  my 
forehead   is    on   the    ground.      You   seem 
offended  at  a  little  simple  innocent  childish 
playfulness  in  my  last.     I  did  not  seriously 
mean  to  say  that  you  were  endeavouring  to 
make  me  keep  my  promise.     I  beg  your 
pardon  for  it.     'Tis   but  just  your   Pride 
should   take   the  alarm  —  seriously.      You 
say  I  may  do  as  I  please  —  I  do  not  think 


TO   JOHN   TAYLOR 


389 


with  any  conscience  I  can  ;  my  cash  re- 
sources are  for  the  present  stopp'd  ;  I  fear 
for  some  time.  I  spend  no  money,  but  it 
increases  my  debts.  I  have  all  my  life 
thought  very  little  of  these  matters  —  they 
seem  not  to  belong  to  me.  It  may  be  a 
proud  sentence  ;  but  by  Heaven  I  am  as 
entirely  above  all  matters  of  interest  as  the 
Sun  is  above  the  Earth  —  and  though  of 
my  own  money  I  should  be  careless  ;  of  my 
Friends'  I  must  be  spare.  You  see  how  I 
go  on  —  like  so  many  strokes  of  a  hammer. 
I  cannot  help  it  —  I  am  impell'd,  driven 
to  it.  I  am  not  happy  enough  for  silken 
Phrases,  and  silver  sentences.  I  can  no 
more  use  soothing  words  to  you  than  if  I 
were  at  this  moment  engaged  in  a  charge 
of  Cavalry.  Then  you  will  say  I  should 
not  write  at  all.  —  Should  I  not  ?  This 
Winchester  is  a  fine  place  :  a  beautiful 
Cathedral  and  many  other  ancient  build- 
ings in  the  Environs.  The  little  coffin  of 
a  room  at  Shanklin  is  changed  for  a  large 
room,  where  I  can  promenade  at  my  plea- 
sure —  looks  out  onto  a  beautiful  —  blank 
side  of  a  house.  It  is  strange  I  should  like 
it  better  than  the  view  of  the  sea  from  our 
window  at  Shanklin.  I  began  to  hate  the 
very  posts  there  —  the  voice  of  the  old 
Lady  over  the  way  was  getting  a  great 
Plague.  The  Fisherman's  face  never  al- 
tered any  more  than  our  black  teapot  — 
the  knob  however  was  knock' d  off  to  my 
little  relief.  I  am  getting  a  great  dislike 
of  the  picturesque  ;  and  can  only  relish  it 
over  again  by  seeing  you  enjoy  it.  One  of 
the  pleasantest  things  I  have  seen  lately 
was  at  Cowes.  The  Regent  in  his  Yatch 
(I  think  they  spell  it)  was  anchored  oppo- 
site —  a  beautiful  vessel  —  and  all  the 
Yatcbs  and  boats  on  the  coast  were  passing 
and  repassing  it  ;  and  circuiting  and  tack- 
ing about  it  in  every  direction  —  I  never 
beheld  anything  so  silent,  light,  and  grace- 
ful. —  As  we  pass'd  over  to  Southampton, 
there  was  nearly  an  accident.  There  came 
by  a  Boat  well  mann'd,  with  two  naval 
officers  at  the  stern.  Our  Bow-lines  took 


the  top  of  their  little  mast  and  snapped  it 
off  close  by  the  board.  Had  the  mast  been 
a  little  stouter  they  would  have  been  up- 
set. In  so  trifling  an  event  I  could  not 
help  admiring  our  seamen  —  neither  officer 
nor  man  in  the  whole  Boat  moved  a  muscle 
—  they  scarcely  notic'd  it  even  with  words. 
Forgive  me  for  this  flint-worded  Letter, 
and  believe  and  see  that  I  cannot  think  of 
you  without  some  sort  of  energy  —  though 
mal  a  propos.  Even  as  I  leave  off  it  seems 
to  me  that  a  few  more  moments'  thought 
of  you  would  uncrystallize  and  dissolve  me. 
I  must  not  give  way  to  it  —  but  turn  to  my 
writing  again  —  if  I  fail  I  shall  die  hard. 
O  my  love,  your  lips  are  growing  sweet 
again  to  my  fancy  —  I  must  forget  them. 
Ever  your  affectionate  KEATS. 


123.      TO  JOHN  TAYLOR 

Winchester,  Monday  morn 

[August  23,  1819.] 

MY  DEAR  TAYLOR  — .  .  .  Brown  and 
I  have  together  been  engaged  (this  I 
should  wish  to  remain  secret)  on  a  Tragedy 
which  I  have  just  finished  and  from  which 
we  hope  to  share  moderate  profits.  ...  I 
feel  every  confidence  that,  if  I  choose,  I 
may  be  a  popular  writer.  That  I  will 
never  be  ;  but  for  all  that  I  will  get  a  live- 
lihood. I  equally  dislike  the  favour  of  the 
public  with  the  love  of  a  woman.  They 
are  both  a  cloying  treacle  to  the  wings  of 
Independence.  I  shall  ever  consider  them 
(People)  as  debtors  to  me  for  verses,  not 
myself  to  them  for  admiration  —  which  I 
can  do  without.  I  have  of  late  been  indul- 
ging my  spleen  by  composing  a  preface  AT 
them  :  after  all  resolving  never  to  write  a 
preface  at  all.  *  There  are  so  many  verses/ 
would  I  have  said  to  them,  « give  so  much 
means  for  me  to  buy  pleasure  with,  as  a 
relief  to  my  hours  of  labour '  —  You  will 
observe  at  the  end  of  this  if  you  put  down 
the  letter,  '  How  a  solitary  life  engenders 
pride  and  egotism  ! '  True  —  I  know  it 


39° 


LETTERS    OF   JOHN    KEATS 


does  :  but  this  pride  and  egotism  will  en- 
able me  to  write  finer  things  than  anything 
else  could  —  so  I  will  indulge  it.  Just  so 
much  as  I  am  humbled  by  the  genius  above 
my  grasp  am  I  exalted  and  look  with  hate 
and  contempt  upon  the  literary  world.  — 
A  drummer-boy  who  holds  out  his  hand 
familiarly  to  a  field  Marshal,  —  that  drum- 
mer-boy with  me  is  the  good  word  and 
favour  of  the  public.  Who  could  wish  to 
be  among  the  common-place  crowd  of  the 
little  famous  —  who  are  each  individually 
lost  in  a  throng  made  up  of  themselves  ? 
Is  this  worth  louting  or  playing  the  hypo- 
crite for  ?  To  beg  suffrages  for  a  seat  on 
the  benches  of  a  myriad-aristocracy  in  let- 
ters ?  This  is  not  wise.  —  I  am  not  a  wise 
man  —  'T  is  pride  —  I  will  give  you  a 
definition  of  a  proud  man  —  He  is  a  man 
who  has  neither  Vanity  nor  Wisdom  —  One 
filled  with  hatreds  cannot  be  vain,  neither 
can  he  be  wise.  Pardon  me  for  hammering 
instead  of  writing.  Remember  me  to 
Woodhouse  Hessey  and  all  in  Percy  Street. 
Ever  yours  sincerely  JOHN  KEATS. 

124.      TO  JOHN  HAMILTON  REYNOLDS 

Winchester,  August  25  [1819]. 
MY  DEAR  REYNOLDS — By  this  post  I 
write  to  Rice,  who  will  tell  you  why  we 
have  left  Shanklin  ;  and  how  we  like  this 
place.  I  have  indeed  scarcely  anything 
else  to  say,  leading  so  monotonous  a  life, 
except  I  was  to  give  you  a  history  of  sen- 
sations, and  day-nightmares.  You  would 
not  find  me  at  all  unhappy  in  it,  as  all  my 
thoughts  and  feelings  which  are  of  the 
selfish  nature,  home  speculations,  every 
day  continue  to  make,  me  more  iron  —  I  am 
convinced  more  and  more,  every  day,  that 
fine  writing  is,  next  to  fine  doing,  the  top 
thing  in  the  world  ;  the  Paradise  Lost  be- 
comes a  greater  wonder.  The  more  I 
know  what  my  diligence  may  in  time  prob- 
ably effect,  the  more  does  my  heart  distend 
with  Pride  and  Obstinacy  —  I  feel  it  in  my 
power  to  become  a  popular  writer  —  I  feel 


it  in  my  power  to  refuse  the  poisonous  suf- 
frage of  a  public.  My  own  being  which  I 
know  to  be  becomes  of  more  consequence 
to  me  than  the  crowds  of  Shadows  in  the 
shape  of  men  and  women  that  inhabit  a 
kingdom.  The  soul  is  a  world  of  itself,  and 
has  enough  to  do  in  its  own  home.  Those 
whom  I  know  already,  and  who  have  grown 
as  it  were  0  part  of  myself,  I  could  not  do 
without  :  but  for  the  rest  of  mankind,  they 
are  as  much  a  dream  to  me  as  Milton's 
Hierarchies.  I  think  if  I  had  a  free  and 
healthy  and  lasting  organisation  of  heart, 
and  lungs  as  strong  as  an  ox's  so  as  to  be 
able  to  bear  unhurt  the  shock  of  extreme 
thought  and  sensation  without  weariness,  I 
could  pass  my  life  very  nearly  alone  though 
it  should  last  eighty  years.  But  I  feel  my 
body  too  weak  to  support  me  to  the  height, 
I  am  obliged  continually  to  check  myself, 
and  be  nothing.  It  would  be  vain  for  me 
to  endeavour  after  a  more  reasonable  man- 
ner of  writing  to  you.  I  have  nothing  to 
speak  of  but  myself,  and  what  can  I  say 
but  what  I  feel  ?  If  you  should  have  any 
reason  to  regret  this  state  of  excitement  in 
me,  I  will  turn  the  tide  of  your  feelings  in 
the  right  Channel,  by  mentioning  that  it  is 
the  only  state  for  the  best  sort  of  Poetry  — 
that  is  all  I  care  for,  all  I  live  for.  Forgive 
me  for  not  filling  up  the  whole  sheet  ;  Let- 
ters become  so  irksome  to  me,  that  the 
next  time  I  leave  London  I  shall  petition 
them  all  to  be  spared  me.  To  give  ine 
credit  for  constancy,  and  at  the  same  time 
waive  letter  writing  will  be  the  highest 
indulgence  I  can  think  of. 
Ever  your  affectionate  friend 

JOHN  KEATS. 

125.      TO  FANNY  KEATS 

Winchester,  August  28  [1819]. 
MY  DEAR  FANNY  —  You  must  forgive 
me  for  suffering  so  long  a  space  to  elapse 
between  the  dates  of  my  letters.  It  is  more 
than  a  fortnight  since  I  left  Shanklin  chiefly 
for  the  purpose  of  being  near  a  tolerable 


TO    FANNY   KEATS 


Library,  which  after  all  is  not  to  be  found 
in  this  place.  However  we  like  it  very 
much:  it  is  the  pleasantest  Town  I  ever 
was  in,  and  has  the  most  recommendations 
of  any.  There  is  a  fine  Cathedral  which  to 
me  is  always  a  source  of  amusement,  part 
of  it  built  1400  years  ago;  and  the  more 
modern  by  a  magnificent  Man,  you  may 
have  read  of  in  our  History,  called  William 
of  Wickham.  The  whole  town  is  beauti- 
fully wooded.  From  the  Hill  at  the  east- 
ern extremity  you  see  a  prospect  of  Streets, 
and  old  Buildings  mixed  up  with  Trees. 
Then  there  are  the  most  beautiful  streams 
about  I  ever  saw  —  full  of  Trout.  There 
is  the  Foundation  of  St.  Croix  about  half  a 
mile  in  the  fields  —  a  charity  greatly  abused. 
We  have  a  Collegiate  School,  a  Roman  cath- 
olic School;  a  chapel  ditto  and  a  Nunnery! 
and  what  improves  it  all  is,  the  fashionable 
inhabitants  are  all  gone  to  Southampton. 
We  are  quiet  —  except  a  fiddle  that  now 
and  then  goes  like  a  gimlet  through  my 
Ears  —  our  Landlady's  son  not  being  quite 
a  Proficient.  I  have  still  been  hard  at 
work,  having  completed  a  Tragedy  I  think 
I  spoke  of  to  you.  But  there  I  fear  all  my 
labour  will  be  thrown  away  for  the  present, 
as  I  hear  Mr.  Kean  is  going  to  America. 
For  all  I  can  guess  I  shall  remain  here  till 
the  middle  of  October  —  when  Mr.  Brown 
will  return  to  his  house  at  Hampstead; 
whither  I  shall  return  with  him.  I  some 
time  since  sent  the  Letter  I  told  you  I  had 
received  from  George  to  Haslam  with  a 
request  to  let  you  and  Mrs.  Wylie  see  it: 
he  sent  it  back  to  me  for  very  insufficient 
reasons  without  doing  so;  and  I  was  so  irri- 
tated by  it  that  I  would  not  send  it  travel- 
ling about  by  the  post  any  more:  besides 
the  postage  is  very  expensive.  I  know 
Mrs.  Wylie  will  think  this  a  great  neglect. 
I  am  sorry  to  say  my  temper  gets  the  bet- 
ter of  me  —  I  will  not  send  it  again.  Some 
correspondence  I  have  had  with  Mr.  Abbey 
about  George's  affairs  —  and  I  must  con- 
fess he  has  behaved  very  kindly  to  me  as 
far  as  the  wording  of  his  Letter  went. 


Have  you  heard  any  further  mention  of  his 
retiring  from  Business  ?  I  am  anxious  to 
hear  whether  Hodgkinson,  whose  name  I 
cannot  bear  to  write,  will  in  any  likelihood 
be  thrown  upon  himself.  The  delightful 
Weather  we  have  had  for  two  Months  is 
the  highest  gratification  I  could  receive  — 
no  chill'd  red  noses  —  no  shivering  —  but 
fair  atmosphere  to  think  in  —  a  clean  towel 
mark'd  with  the  mangle  and  a  basin  of  clear 
Water  to  drench  one's  face  with  ten  times 
a  day :  no  need  of  much  exercise  —  a  Mile 
a  day  being  quite  sufficient.  My  greatest 
regret  is  that  I  have  not  been  well  enough 
to  bathe  though  I  have  been  two  Months 
by  the  seaside  and  live  now  close  to  deli- 
cious bathing  —  Still  I  enjoy  the  Weather 
—  I  adore  fine  Weather  as  the  greatest 
blessing  I  can  have.  Give  me  Books,  fruit, 
French  wine  and  fine  weather  and  a  little 
music  out  of  doors,  played  by  somebody  I 
do  not  know  —  not  pay  the  price  of  one's 
time  for  a  jig  —  but  a  little  chance  music: 
and  I  can  pass  a  summer  very  quietly  with- 
out caring  much  about  Fat  Louis,  fat  Re- 
gent or  the  Duke  of  Wellington.  Why 
have  you  not  written  to  me  ?  Because  you 
were  in  expectation  of  George's  Letter  and 
so  waited  ?  Mr.  Brown  is  copying  out  our 
Tragedy  of  Otho  the  Great  in  a  superb 
style  —  better  than  it  deserves  —  there  as 
I  said  is  labour  in  vain  for  the  present.  I 
had  hoped  to  give  Kean  another  opportu- 
nity to  shine.  What  can  we  do  now  ?  There 
is  not  another  actor  of  Tragedy  in  all  Lon- 
don or  Europe.  The  Covent  Garden  com- 
pany is  execrable.  Young  is  the  best  among 
them  and  he  is  a  ranting  coxcombical  taste- 
less Actor  —  a  Disgust,  a  Nausea  —  and  yet 
the  very  best  after  Kean.  What  a  set  of 
barren  asses  are  actors!  I  should  like  now 
to  promenade  round  your  Gardens  —  apple- 
tasting  —  pear  -  tasting  —  plum  -  judging  — 
apricot-nibbling — peach-scrunching  —  nec- 
tarine-sucking and  Melon-carving.  I  also 
have  a  great  feeling  for  antiquated  cherries 
full  of  sugar  cracks  —  and  a  white  currant 
tree  kept  for  company.  I  admire  lolling 


392 


LETTERS    OF   JOHN    KEATS 


on  a  lawn  by  a  water  lilied  pond  to  eat 
white  currants  and  see  gold-fish:  and  go  to 
the  Fair  in  the  Evening  if  I'm  good.  There 
is  not  hope  for  that  —  one  is  sure  to  get 
into  some  mess  before  evening.  Have 
these  hot  days  I  brag  of  so  much  been  well 
or  ill  for  your  health  ?  Let  me  hear  soon. 
Your  affectionate  Brother  JOHN . 

126.      TO  JOHN  TAYLOR 

Winchester,  September  1, 1819. 

MY  DEAR  TAYLOR  —  Brown  and  I  have 
been  employed  for  these  3  weeks  past  from 
time  to  time  in  writing  to  our  different 
friends  —  a  dead  silence  is  our  only  answer 
—  we  wait  morning  after  morning.  Tues- 
day is  the  day  for  the  Examiner  to  arrive, 
this  is  the  2d  Tuesday  which  has  been  bar- 
ren even  of  a  newspaper  —  Men  should  be 
in  imitation  of  spirits  '  responsive  to  each 
other's  note.'  Instead  of  that  I  pipe  and 
no  one  hath  danced.  We  have  been  curs- 
ing like  Mandeville  and  Lisle  —  With  this 
I  shall  send  by  the  same  post  a  3d  letter  to 
a  friend  of  mine,  who  though  it  is  of  conse- 
quence has  neither  answered  right  or  left. 
We  have  been  much  in  want  of  news  from 
the  Theatres,  having  heard  that  Kean  is 
going  to  America  —  but  no  —  not  a  word. 
Why  I  should  come  on  you  with  all  these 
complaints  I  cannot  explain  to  myself, 
especially  as  I  suspect  you  must  be  in  the 
country.  Do  answer  me  soon  for  I  really 
must  know  something.  I  must  steer  my- 
self by  the  rudder  of  Information.  .  .  . 

Ever  yours  sincerely        JOHN  KEATS. 

127.      TO  THE  SAME 

Winchester,  September  5  [1819]. 
MY  DEAR  TAYLOR  —  This  morning  I  re- 
ceived yours  of  the  2d,  and  with  it  a  letter 
from  Hessey  enclosing  a  Bank  post  Bill  of 
£30,  an  ample  sum  I  assure  you  —  more  I 
had  no  thought  of.  —  You  should  not  have 
delayed  so  long  in  Fleet  St.  —  leading  an 
inactive  life  as  you  did  was  breathing  poi- 


son: you  will  find  the  country  air  do  more 
for  you  than  you  expect.  But  it  must  be 
proper  country  air.  You  must  choose  a 
spot.  What  sort  of  a  place  is  Retford  ? 
You  should  have  a  dry,  gravelly,  barren, 
elevated  country,  open  to  the  currents  of 
air,  and  such  a  place  is  generally  furnished 
with  the  finest  springs  —  The  neighbour- 
hood of  a  rich  enclosed  fulsome  manured 
arable  land,  especially  in  a  valley  and  al- 
most as  bad  on  a  flat,  would  be  almost  as 
bad  as  the  smoke  of  Fleet  Street.  —  Such  a 
place  as  this  was  Shanklin,  only  open  to  the 
south-east,  and  surrounded  by  hills  in  every 
other  direction.  From  this  south-east  came 
the  damps  of  the  sea;  which,  having  no 
egress,  the  air  would  for  days  together  take 
on  an  unhealthy  idiosyncracy  altogether 
enervating  and  weakening  as  a  city  smoke 
—  I  felt  it  very  much.  Since  I  have  been 
here  at  Winchester  I  have  been  improving 
in  health  —  it  is  not  so  confined  —  and  there 
is  on  one  side  of  the  City  a  dry  chalky  down, 
where  the  air  is  worth  Sixpence  a  pint.  So 
if  you  do  not  get  better  at  Retford,  do  not 
impute  it  to  your  own  weakness  before 
you  have  well  considered  the  Nature  of 
the  air  and  soil  —  especially  as  Autumn  is 
encroaching  —  for  the  Autumn  fog  over  a 
rich  land  is  like  the  steam  from  cabbage 
water.  What  makes  the  great  difference 
between  valesmen,  flatlandmen  and  moun- 
taineers ?  The  cultivation  of  the  earth  in 
a  great  measure  —  Our  health  temperament 
and  disposition  are  taken  more  (notwith- 
standing the  contradiction  of  the  history  of 
Cain  and  Abel)  from  the  air  we  breathe, 
than  is  generally  imagined.  See  the  differ- 
ence between  a  Peasant  and  a  Butcher.  — 
I  am  convinced  a  great  cause  of  it  is  the 
difference  of  the  air  they  breathe:  the  one 
takes  his  mingled  with  the  fume  of  slaugh- 
ter, the  other  from  the  dank  exhalement 
from  the  glebe;  the  teeming  damp  that 
comes  up  from  the  plough-furrow  is  of 
great  effect  in  taming  the  fierceness  of  a 
strong  man  —  more  than  his  labour  —  Let 
him  be  mowing  furz  upon  a  mountain,  and 


TO   FANNY   BRAWNE 


393 


at  the  day's  end  his  thoughts  will  run  upon 
a  ...  axe  if  he  ever  had  handled  one ;  let 
him  leave  the  plough,  and  he  will  think 
quietly  of  his  supper.  Agriculture  is  the 
tamer  of  men  —  the  steam  from  the  earth 
is  like  drinking  their  Mother's  milk — it 
enervates  their  nature  —  this  appears  a 
great  cause  of  the  imbecility  of  the  Chinese: 
and  if  this  sort  of  atmosphere  is  a  mitiga- 
tion to  the  energy  of  a  strong  man,  how 
much  more  must  it  injure  a  weak  one  un- 
occupied unexercised  —  For  what  is  the 
cause  of  so  many  men  maintaining  a  good 
state  in  Cities,  but  occupation  —  An  idle 
man,  a  man  who  is  not  sensitively  alive  to 
self-interest  in  a  city  cannot  continue  long 
in  good  health.  This  is  easily  explained  — 
If  you  were  to  walk  leisurely  through  an 
unwholesome  path  in  the  fens,  with  a  little 
horror  of  them,  you  would  be  sure  to  have 
your  ague.  But  let  Macbeth  cross  the 
same  path,  with  the  dagger  in  the  air  lead- 
ing him  on,  and  he  would  never  have  an 
ague  or  anything  like  it  —  You  should  give 
these  things  a  serious  consideration.  Notts, 
I  believe,  is  a  flat  county  —  You  should  be 
on  the  slope  of  one  of  the  dry  barren  hills 
in  Somersetshire.  I  am  convinced  there  is 
as  harmful  air  to  be  breathed  in  the  country 
as  in  town.  I  am  greatly  obliged  to  you 
for  your  letter.  Perhaps,  if  you  had  had 
strength  and  spirits  enough,  you  would  have 
felt  offended  by  my  offering  a  note  of  hand, 
or  rather  expressed  it.  However,  I  am 
•  sure  you  will  give  me  credit  for  not  in  any- 
wise mistrusting  you  :  or  imagining  that 
you  would  take  advantage  of  any  power  I 
might  give  you  over  me.  No  —  It  pro- 
ceeded from  my  serious  resolve  not  to  be  a 
gratuitous  borrower,  from  a  great  desire  to 
be  correct  in  money  matters,  to  have  in  my 
desk  the  Chronicles  of  them  to  refer  to, 
and  know  my  worldly  nonestate:  besides 
in  case  of  my  death  such  documents  would 
be  but  just,  if  merely  as  memorials  of  the 
friendly  turns  I  had  done  to  me  —  Had  I 
known  of  your  illness  I  should  not  have 
written  in  such  fiery  phrase  in  my  first  let- 


ter. I  hope  that  shortly  you  will  be  able 
to  bear  six  times  as  much.  Brown  likes 
the  tragedy  very  much:  But  he  is  not  a  fit 
judge  of  it,  as  I  have  only  acted  as  midwife 
to  his  plot;  and  of  course  he  will  be  fond 
of  his  child.  I  do  not  think  I  can  make 
you  any  extracts  without  spoiling  the  effect 
of  the  whole  when  you  come  to  read  it  — 
I  hope  you  will  then  not  think  my  labour 
misspent.  Since  I  finished  it,  I  have  fin- 
ished Lamia,  and  am  now  occupied  in  revis- 
ing St.  Agnes's  Eve,  and  studying  Italian, 
Ariosto  I  find  as  diffuse,  in  parts,  as  Spen- 
ser—  I  understand  completely  the  differ- 
ence between  them.  I  will  cross  the  letter 
with  some  lines  from  Lamia.  [The  lines 
copied  are  122-177.]  Brown's  kindest  re- 
membrances to  you  —  and  I  am  ever  your 
most  sincere  friend  JOHN  KEATS. 

This  is  a  good  sample  of  the  story. 
Brown  is  gone  to  Chichester  a-visiting  — 
I  shall  be  alone  here  for  3  weeks,  expect* 
ing  accounts  of  your  health. 

128.      TO  FANNY  BRAWNE 

Fleet  Street,  Monday  Morn. 
[Postmark,  Lombard  Street, 

September  14,  1819.] 

MY  DEAR  GIRL  —  I  have  been  hurried 
to  town  by  a  Letter  from  my  brother 
George  ;  it  is  not  of  the  brightest  intelli- 
gence. Am  I  mad  or  not  ?  I  came  by  the 
Friday  night  coach  and  have  not  yet  been 
to  Hainpstead.  Upon  my  soul  it  is  not  my 
fault.  I  cannot  resolve  to  mix  any  plea- 
sure with  my  days  :  they  go  one  like 
another,  undistinguishable.  If  I  were  to 
see  you  to-day  it  would  destroy  the  half 
comfortable  sullenness  I  enjoy  at  present 
into  downright  perplexities.  I  love  you 
too  much  to  venture  to  Hampstead,  I  feel 
it  is  not  paying  a  visit,  but  venturing  into 
a  fire.  Que  feraije  ?  as  the  French  novel 
writers  say  in  fun,  and  I  in  earnest :  really 
what  can  I  do  ?  Knowing  well  that  my 
life  must  be  passed  in  fatigue  and  trouble, 
I  have  been  endeavouring  to  wean  myself 


394 


LETTERS   OF  JOHN    KEATS 


from  you:  for  to  myself  alone  what  can  be 
much  of  a  misery  ?  As  far  as  they  regard 
myself  I  can  despise  all  events :  but  I  can- 
not cease  to  love  you.  This  morning  I 
scarcely  know  what  I  am  doing.  I  am 
going  to  Walthamstow.  I  shall  return  to 
Winchester  to-morrow  ;  whence  you  shall 
hear  from  me  in  a  few  days.  I  am  a 
Coward,  I  cannot  bear  the  pain  of  being 
happy  :  't  is  out  of  the  question  :  I  must 
admit  no  thought  of  it. 

Yours  ever  affectionately    JOHN  KEATS. 

129.   TO  GEORGE  AND  GEOBGIANA  KEATS 

Winchester,  September  [17,  1819],  Friday. 

MY  DEAR  GEORGE  —  I  was  closely  em- 
ployed in  reading  and  composition  in  this 
place,  whither  I  had  come  from  Shanklin 
for  the  convenience  of  a  library,  when  I 
received  your  last  dated  24th  July.  You 
will  have  seen  by  the  short  letter  I  wrote 
from  Shanklin  how  matters  stand  between 
us  and  Mr.  Jennings.  They  had  not  at  all 
moved,  and  I  knew  no  way  of  overcoming 
the  inveterate  obstinacy  of  our  affairs.  On 
receiving  your  last,  I  immediately  took  a 
place  in  the  same  night's  coach  for  London. 
Mr.  Abbey  behaved  extremely  well  to  me, 
appointed  Monday  evening  at  seven  to 
meet  me,  and  observed  that  he  should 
drink  tea  at  that  hour.  I  gave  him  the 
enclosed  note  and  showed  him  the  last  leaf 
of  yours  to  me.  He  really  appeared  anx- 
ious about  it,  and  promised  he  would  for- 
ward your  money  as  quickly  as  possible. 
I  think  I  mentioned  that  Walton  was  dead. 
...  He  will  apply  to  Mr.  Gliddon  the 
partner,  endeavour  to  get  rid  of  Mr.  Jen- 
ning's  claim,  and  be  expeditious.  He  has 
received  an  answer  from  my  letter  to  Fry. 
That  is  something.  We  are  certainly  in  a 
very  low  estate  —  I  say  we,  for  I  am  in 
such  a  situation,  that  were  it  not  for  the 
assistance  of  Brown  and  Taylor,  I  must  be 
as  badly  off  as  a  man  can  be.  I  could  not 
raise  any  sum  by  the  promise  of  any  poem, 
no,  not  by  the  mortgage  of  my  intellect. 


We  must  wait  a  little  while.  I  really  have 
hopes  of  success.  I  have  finished  a  tragedy, 
which  if  it  succeeds  will  enable  me  to  sell 
what  I  may  have  in  manuscript  to  a  good 
advantage.  I  have  passed  my  time  in 
reading,  writing,  and  fretting  —  the  last  I 
intend  to  give  up,  and  stick  to  the  other 
two.  They  are  the  only  chances  of  benefit 
to  us.  Your  wants  will  be  a  fresh  spur  to 
me.  I  assure  you  you  shall  more  than 
share  what  I  can  get  whilst  I  am  still  young. 
The  time  may  come  when  age  will  make 
me  more  selfish.  I  have  not  been  well 
treated  by  the  world,  and  yet  I  have,  capi- 
tally well.  I  do  not  know  a  person  to 
whom  so  many  purse-strings  would  fly  open 
as  to  me,  if  I  could  possibly  take  advantage 
of  them,  which  I  cannot  do,  for  none  of 
the  owners  of  these  purses  are  rich.  Your 
present  situation  I  will  not  suffer  myself  to 
dwell  upon.  When  misfortunes  are  so  real, 
we  are  glad  enough  to  escape  them  and 
the  thought  of  them.  I  cannot  help  think- 
ing Mr.  Audubon  a  dishonest  man.  Why 
did  he  make  you  believe  that  he  was  a  man 
of  property  ?  How  is  it  that  his  circum- 
stances have  altered  so  suddenly  ?  In 
truth,  I  do  not  believe  you  fit  to  deal  with 
the  world,  or  at  least  the  American  world. 
But,  good  God  !  who  can  avoid  these 
chances  ?  You  have  done  your  best.  Take 
matters  as  coolly  as  you  can  ;  and  confi- 
dently expecting  help  from  England,  act  as 
if  no  help  were  nigh.  Mine,  I  am  sure,  is 
a  tolerable  tragedy  ;  it  would  have  been  a 
bank  to  me,  if  just  as  I  had  finished  it, 
I  had  not  heard  of  Kean's  resolution  to  go 
to  America.  That  was  the  worst  news  I 
could  have  had.  There  is  no  actor  can  do 
the  principal  character  besides  Kean.  At 
Covent  Garden  there  is  a  great  chance  of 
its  being  damm'd.  Were  it  to  succeed 
even  there  it  would  lift  me  out  of  the  mire; 
I  mean  the  mire  of  a  bad  reputation  which 
is  continually  rising  against  me.  My  name 
with  the  literary  fashionables  is  vulgar.  I 
am  a  weaver-boy  to  them.  A  tragedy  would 
lift  me  out  of  this  mess,  and  mess  it  is  as 


TO  GEORGE  AND  GEORGIANA  KEATS 


395 


far  as  regards  our  pockets.  But  be  not 
cast  down  any  more  than  I  am ;  I  feel  that 
I  can  bear  real  ills  better  than  imaginary 
ones.  Whenever  I  find  myself  growing 
vapourish,  I  rouse  myself,  wash,  and  put 
on  a  clean  shirt,  brush  my  hair  and  clothes, 
tie  my  shoestrings  neatly,  and  in  fact 
adonise  as  I  were  going  out.  Then,  all 
clean  and  comfortable,  I  sit  down  to  write. 
This  I  find  the  greatest  relief.  Besides  I 
am  becoming  accustomed  to  the  privations 
of  the  pleasures  of  sense.  In  the  midst  of 
the  world  I  live  like  a  hermit.  I  have  for- 
got how  to  lay  plans  for  the  enjoyment  of 
any  pleasure.  I  feel  I  can  bear  anything, 
—  any  misery,  even  imprisonment,  so  long 
as  I  have  neither  wife  nor  child.  Perhaps 
you  will  say  yours  are  your  only  comfort  ; 
they  must  be.  I  returned  to  Winchester 
the  day  before  yesterday,  and  am  now  here 
alone,  for  Brown,  some  days  before  I  left, 
went  to  Bedhampton,  and  there  he  will  be 
for  the  next  fortnight.  The  term  of  his 
house  will  be  up  in  the  middle  of  next 
month  when  we  shall  return  to  Hampstead. 
On  Sunday,  I  dined  with  your  mother  and 
Hen  and  Charles  in  Henrietta  Street.  Mrs. 
and  Miss  Millar  were  in  the  country. 
Charles  had  been  but  a  few  days  returned 
from  Paris.  I  daresay  you  will  have  let- 
ters expressing  the  motives  of  his  journey. 
Mrs.  Wylie  and  Miss  Waldegrave  seem  as 
quiet  as  two  mice  there  alone.  I  did  not 
show  your  last.  I  thought  it  better  not, 
for  better  times  will  certainly  come,  and 
why  should  they  be  unhappy  in  the  mean- 
time ?  On  Monday  morning  I  went  to 
Walthamstow.  Fanny  looked  better  than 
I  had  seen  her  for  some  time.  She  com- 
plains of  not  hearing  from  you,  appealing 
to  me  as  if  it  were  half  my  faujt.  I  had 
been  so  long  in  retirement  that  London  ap- 
peared a  very  odd  place.  I  could  not  make 
out  I  had  so  many  acquaintances,  and  it 
was  a  whole  day  before  I  could  feel  among 
men.  I  had  another  strange  sensation. 
There  was  not  one  house  I  felt  any  plea- 
sure to  call  at.  Reynolds  was  in  the  coun- 


try, and,  saving  himself,  I  am  prejudiced 
against  all  that  family.  Dilke  and  his  wife 
and  child  were  in  the  country.  Taylor  was 
at  Nottingham.  I  was  out,  and  everybody 
was  out.  I  walked  about  the  streets  as  in 
a  strange  land.  Rice  was  the  only  one  at 
home.  I  passed  some  time  with  him.  I 
know  him  better  since  we  have  lived  a 
month  together  in  the  Isle  of  Wight.  He 
is  the  most  sensible  and  even  wise  man  I 
know.  He  has  a  few  John  Bull  prejudices, 
but  they  improve  him.  His  illness  is  at 
times  alarming.  We  are  great  friends,  and 
there  is  no  one  I  like  to  pass  a  day  with 
better.  Martin  called  in  to  bid  him  good- 
bye before  he  set  out  for  Dublin.  If  you 
would  like  to  hear  one  of  his  jokes,  here  is 
one  which,  at  the  time,  we  laughed  at  a 

good  deal :    A  Miss ,  with  three  young 

ladies,  one  of  them  Martin's  sister,  had 
come  a-gadding  in  the  Isle  of  Wight  and 
took  for  a  few  days  a  cottage  opposite  ours. 
We  dined  with  them  one  day,  and  as  I  was 

saying  they  had  fish.     Miss  said  she 

thought  they  tasted  of  the  boat.  '  No '  says 
Martin,  very  seriously,  '  they  have  n't  been 
kept  long  enough.'  I  saw  Haslam.  He  is 
very  much  occupied  with  love  and  business, 
being  one  of  Mr.  Saunders'  executors  and 
lover  to  a  young  woman.  He  showed  me 
her  picture  by  Severn.  I  think  she  is, 
though  not  very  cunning,  too  cunning  for 
him.  Nothing  strikes  me  so  forcibly  with 
a  sense  of  the  ridiculous  as  love.  A  man 
in  love  I  do  think  cuts  the  sorriest  figure 
in  the  world  ;  queer,  when  I  know  a  poor 
fool  to  be  really  in  pain  about  it,  I  could 
burst  out  laughing  in  his  face.  His  pa- 
thetic visage  becomes  irresistible.  Not  that 
I  take  Haslam  as  a  pattern  for  lovers;  he  is 
a  very  worthy  man  and  a  good  friend.  His 
love  is  very  amusing.  Somewhere  in  the 
Spectator  is  related  an  account  of  a  man 
inviting  a  party  of  stutterers  and  squinters 
to  his  table.  It  would  please  me  more  to 
scrape  together  a  party  of  lovers  —  not  to 
dinner,  but  to  tea.  There  would  be  no 
fighting  as  among  knights  of  old. 


396 


LETTERS   OF   JOHN    KEATS 


[Here  follow  the  lines  given  on  p.  251.] 
You  see,  I  cannot  get  on  without  writing, 
as  boys  do  at  school,  a  few  nonsense  verses. 
I  begin  them  and  before  I  have  written  six 
the  whim  has  passed  —  if  there  is  anything 
deserving  so  respectable  a  name  in  them. 
I  shall  put  in  a  bit  of  information  any- 
where, just  as  it  strikes  me.  Mr.  Abbey  is 
to  write  to  me  as  soon  as  he  can  bring 
matters  to  bear,  and  then  I  am  to  go  to 
town  and  tell  him  the  means  of  forwarding 
to  you  through  Capper  and  Hazlewood.  I 
wonder  I  did  not  put  this  before.  I  shall 
go  on  to-morrow  ;  it  is  so  fine  now  I  must 
take  a  bit  of  a  walk. 

Saturday  [September  18]. 

With  my  inconstant  disposition  it  is  no 
wonder  that  this  morning,  amid  all  our  bad 
times  and  misfortunes,  I  should  feel  so 
alert  and  well-spirited.  At  this  moment 
you  are  perhaps  in  a  very  different  state  of 
mind.  It  is  because  my  hopes  are  ever 
paramount  to  my  despair.  I  have  been 
reading  over  a  part  of  a  short  poem  I  have 
composed  lately,  called  Lamia,  and  I  am 
certain  there  is  that  sort  of  fire  in  it  that 
must  take  hold  of  people  some  way.  Give 
them  either  pleasant  or  unpleasant  sensa- 
tion —  what  they  want  is  a  sensation  of 
some  sort.  I  wish  I  could  pitch  the  key  of 
your  spirits  as  high  as  mine  is  ;  but  your 
organ-loft  is  beyond  the  reach  of  my  voice. 

I  admire  the  exact  admeasurement  of 
my  niece  in  your  mother's  letter  —  O  !  the 
little  span-long  elf.  I  am  not  in  the  least 
a  judge  of  the  proper  weight  and  size  of  an 
infant.  Never  trouble  yourselves  about 
that.  She  is  sure  to  be  a  fine  woman.  Let 
her  have  only  delicate  nails  both  on  hands 
and  feet,  and  both  as  small  as  a  May-fly's, 
who  will  live  you  his  life  on  a  3  square  inch 
of  oak-leaf  ;  and  nails  she  must  have,  quite 
different  from  the  market-women  here,  who 
plough  into  butter  and  make  a  quarter 
pound  taste  of  it.  I  intend  to  write  a  let- 
ter to  your  wife,  and  there  I  may  say  more 
on  this  little  plump  subject  —  I  hope  she  's 


plump.  Still  harping  on  my  daughter. 
This  Winchester  is  a  place  tolerably  well 
suited  to  me.  There  is  a  fine  cathedral,  a 
college,  a  Roman  Catholic  chapel,  a  Metho- 
dist do.,  and  Independent  do.  ;  and  there 
is  not  one  loom,  or  anything  like  manufac- 
turing beyond  bread  and  butter,  in  the 
whole  city.  There  are  a  number  of  rich 
Catholics  in  the  place.  It  is  a  respectable, 
ancient,  and  aristocratic  place,  and  more- 
over it  contains  a  nunnery.  Our  set  are  by 
no  means  so  hail  fellow  well  met  on  lit- 
erary subjects  as  we  were  wont  to  be. 
Reynolds  has  turn'd  to  the  law.  By  the  bye, 
he  brought  out  a  little  piece  at  the  Lyceum 
call'd  One,  Two,  Three,  Four  :  by  Adver- 
tisement. It  met  with  complete  success. 
The  meaning  of  this  odd  title  is  explained 
when  I  tell  you  the  principal  actor  is  a 
mimic,  who  takes  off  four  of  our  best  per- 
formers  in  the  course  of  the  farce.  Oui 
stage  is  loaded  with  mimics.  I  did  not  see 
the  piece,  being  out  of  town  the  whole  time 
it  was  in  progress.  Dilke  is  entirely  swal- 
lowed up  in  his  boy.  It  is  really  lament- 
able to  what  a  pitch  he  carries  a  sort  of 
parental  mania.  I  had  a  letter  from  him 
at  Shanklin.  He  went  on,  a  word  or  two 
about  the  Isle  of  Wight,  which  is  a  bit  of 
hobby  horse  of  his,  but  he  soon  deviated  to 
his  boy.  *I  am  sitting,'  says  he,  'at  the 

window  expecting  my  boy  from .'     I 

suppose  I  told  you  somewhere  that  he  lives 
in  Westminster,  and  his  boy  goes  to  school 
there,  where  he  gets  beaten,  and  every 
bruise  he  has,  and  I  daresay  deserves,  is 
very  bitter  to  Dilke.  The  place  I  am 
speaking  of  puts  me  in  mind  of  a  circum- 
stance which  occurred  lately  at  Dilke's.  I 
think  it  very  rich  and  dramatic  and  quite 
illustrative  of  the  little  quiet  fun  that  he 
will  enjoy  sometimes.  First  I  must  tell 
you  that  their  house  is  at  the  corner  of 
Great  Smith  Street,  so  that  some  of  the 
windows  look  into  one  street,  and  the  back 
windows  look  into  another  around  the 
corner.  Dilke  had  some  old  people  to  din- 
ner —  I  know  not  who,  but  there  were  two 


TO   GEORGE   AND   GEORGIANA   KEATS 


397 


old  ladies  among  them.  Brown  was  there 
—  they  had  known  him  from  a  child. 
Brown  is  very  pleasant  with  old  women, 
and  on  that  day  it  seems  behaved  himself 
so  winningly  that  they  became  hand  and 
glove  together,  and  a  little  complimentary. 
Brown  was  obliged  to  depart  early.  He 
bid  them  good-bye  and  passed  into  the 
passage.  No  sooner  was  his  back  turned 
than  the  old  women  began  lauding  him. 
When  Brown  had  reached  the  street  door, 
and  was  just  going,  Dilke  threw  up  the  win- 
dow and  called  :  «  Brown  !  Brown  !  They 
say  you  look  younger  than  ever  you  did  !  ' 
Brown  went  on,  and  had  just  turned  the 
corner  into  the  other  street  when  Dilke 
appeared  at  the  back  window,  crying  : 
'  Brown  !  Brown  !  By  God,  they  say  you're 
handsome  ! '  You  see  what  a  many  words 
it  requires  to  give  any  identity  to  a  thing  I 
could  have  told  you  in  half  a  minute. 

I  have  been  reading  lately  Burton's 
Anatomy  of  Melancholy,  and  I  think  you 
will  be  very  much  amused  with  a  page  I 
here  copy  for  you.  I  call  it  a  Feu  de  Joie 
round  the  batteries  of  Fort  St.  Hyphen-de- 
Phrase  on  the  birthday  of  the  Digamma. 
The  whole  alphabet  was  drawn  up  in  a 
phalanx  on  the  corner  of  an  old  dictionary, 
band  playing,  *  Amo,  Amas,'  etc. 

'Every  lover  admires  his  mistress,  though 
she  be  very  deformed  of  herself,  ill-favoured, 
wrinkled,  pimpled,  pale,  red,  yellow,  tan'd, 
tallow-faced,  have  a  swoln  juglers  platter  face, 
or  a  thin,  lean,  chitty  face,  have  clouds  in  her 
face,  be  crooked,  dry,  bald,  goggle-ey'd,  blear- 
ey'd  or  with  staring  eys,  she  looks  likeasquis'd 
cat,  holds  her  head  still  awry,  heavy,  dull, 
hollow-mouthed,  Persean  hook-nosed,  have  a 
sharp  Jose  nose,  a  red  nose,  China  flat,  great 
nose,  nare  simo  patuloque,  a  nose  like  a  promon- 
tory, g\ibber-tushed,  rotten  teeth,  black,  un- 
even, brown  teeth,  beetle  browed,  a  witches 
beard,  her  breath  stink  all  over  the  room,  her 
nose  drop  winter  and  summer  with  a  Bavarian 
poke  under  her  chin,  a  sharp  chin,  lave  eared, 
with  a  long  cranes  neck,  which  stands  awry  too, 
pendulis  mammis,  her  dugs  like  two  double  jugs, 
or  else  no  dugs  in  the  other  extream,  bloody 
fain  fingers,  she  have  filthy  long  unpaired 
nails,  scabbed  hands  or  wrists,  a  tan'd  skin,  a 


rotten  carkass,  crooked  back,  she  stoops,  is 
lame,  splea-footed,  as  slender  in  the  middle  as  a 
cow  in  the  waste,  gowty  legs,  her  ankles  hang 
over  her  shooes,  her  feet  stink,  she  breed  lice, 
a  mere  changeling,  a  very  monster,  an  auf  e  im- 
perfect, her  whole  complexion  savours,  an 
harsh  voyce,  incondite  gesture,  vile  gait,  a  vast 
virago,  or  an  ugly  tit,  a  slug,  a  fat  fustilugs,  a 
truss,  a  long  lean  rawbone,  a  skeleton,  a  sneaker 
(si  qua  latent  meliora  puta),  and  to  thy  judgment 
looks  like  a  Mard  in  a  Ian  thorn,  whom  thou 
coulxlst  not  fancy  for  a  world,  but  hatest, 
loathest,  and  wouldst  have  spit  in  her  face,  or 
blow  thy  nose  in  her  bosome,  remedium  amo- 
ris  to  another  man,  a  dowdy,  a  slut,  a  scold, 
a  nasty,  rank,  rammy,  filthy,  beastly  quean, 
dishonest  peradventure,  obscene,  base,  beg- 
gerly,  rude,  foolish,  untaught,  peevish,  Irus' 
daughter,  Thersite's  sister,  Grobian's  schollar ; 
if  he  love  her  once,  he  admires  her  for  all  this, 
he  takes  no  notice  of  any  such  errors,  or  im- 
perfections of  body  or  minde.' 

There's  a  dose  for  you.  Fire !  !  I 
would  give  my  favourite  leg  to  have  writ- 
ten this  as  a  speech  in  a  play.  With  what 
effect  could  Matthews  pop-gun  it  at  the 
pit  !  This  I  think  will  amuse  you  more 
than  so  much  poetry.  Of  that  I  do  not 
like  to  copy  any,  as  I  am  afraid  it  is  too 
mal  a  propos  for  you  at  present ;  and  yet 
I  will  send  you  some,  for  by  the  time  you 
receive  it,  things  in  England  may  have 
taken  a  different  turn.  When  I  left  Mr. 
Abbey  on  Monday  evening,  I  walked  up 
Cheapside,  but  returned  to  put  some  letters 
in  the  post,  and  met  him  again  in  Buckles- 
bury.  We  walked  together  through  the 
Poultry  as  far  as  the  baker's  shop  he  has 
some  concern  in  —  He  spoke  of  it  in  such 
a  way  to  me,  I  thought  he  wanted  me  to 
make  an  offer  to  assist  him  in  it.  I  do 
believe  if  I  could  be  a  hatter  I  might  be 
one.  He  seems  anxious  about  me.  He 
began  blowing  up  Lord  Byron  while  I  was 
sitting  with  him  :  '  However,  may  be  the 
fellow  says  true  now  and  then,'  at  which 
he  picked  up  a  magazine,  and  read  some 
extracts  from  Don  Juan  (Lord  Byron's  last 
flash  poem),  and  particularly  one  against 
literary  ambition.  I  do  think  I  must  be 
well  spoken  of  among  sets,  for  Hodgkin- 


LETTERS    OF   JOHN    KEATS 


son  is  more  than  polite,  and  the  coffee 
German  endeavoured  to  be  very  close  to 
me  the  other  night  at  Covent  Garden, 
where  I  went  at  half  price  before  I  tumbled 
into  bed.  Every  one,  however  distant  an 
acquaintance,  behaves  in  the  most  conciliat- 
ing manner  to  me.  You  will  see  I  speak 
of  this  as  a  matter  of  interest.  On  the 
next  sheet  I  will  give  you  a  little  poli- 
tics. 

In  every  age  there  has  been  in  England, 
for  two  or  three  centuries,  subjects  of 
great  popular  interest  on  the  carpet,  so 
that  however  great  the  uproar,  one  can 
scarcely  prophecy  any  material  change  in 
the  Government,  for  as  loud  disturbances 
have  agitated  the  country  many  times. 
All  civilized  countries  become  gradually 
more  enlightened,  and  there  should  be  a 
continual  change  for  the  better.  Look  at 
this  country  at  present,  and  remember  it 
when  it  was  even  thought  impious  to  doubt 
the  justice  of  a  trial  by  combat.  From 
that  time  there  has  been  a  gradual  change. 
Three  great  changes  have  been  in  progress : 
first  for  the  better,  next  for  the  worse,  and 
a  third  for  the  better  once  more.  The  first 
was  the  gradual  annihilation  of  the  tyranny 
of  the  nobles,  when  kings  found  it  their 
interest  to  conciliate  the  common  people, 
elevate  them,  and  be  just  to  them.  Just 
when  baronial  power  ceased,  and  before 
standing  armies  were  so  dangerous,  taxes 
were  few,  kings  were  lifted  by  the  peo- 
ple over  the  heads  of  their  nobles,  and 
those  people  held  a  rod  over  kings.  The 
change  for  the  worse  in  Europe  was  again 
this:  the  obligation  of  kings  to  the  multi- 
tude began  to  be  forgotten.  Custom  had 
made  noblemen  the  humble  servants  of 
kings.  Then  kings  turned  to  the  nobles 
as  the  adorners  of  their  power,  the  slaves 
of  it,  and  from  the  people  as  creatures 
continually  endeavouring  to  check  them. 
Then  in  every  kingdom  there  was  a 
long  struggle  of  kings  to  destroy  all 
popular  privileges.  The  English  were 
the  only  people  in  Europe  who  made  a 


grand  kick  at  this.  They  were  slaves 
to  Henry  VIII,  but  were  freemen  under 
William  III  at  the  time  the  French  were 
abject  slaves  under  Louis  XTV.  The  ex- 
ample of  England,  and  the  liberal  writers 
of  France  and  England,  sowed  the  seed  of 
opposition  to  this  tyranny,  and  it  was  swell- 
ing in  the  ground  till  it  burst  out  in  the 
French  Revolution.  That  has  had  an  un- 
lucky termination.  It  put  a  stop  to  the 
rapid  progress  of  free  sentiments  in  Eng- 
land, and  gave  our  Court  hopes  of  turning 
back  to  the  despotism  of  the  eighteenth 
century.  They  have  made  a  handle  of 
this  event  in  every  way  to  undermine  our 
freedom.  They  spread  a  horrid  supersti- 
tion against  all  innovation  and  improve- 
ment. The  present  struggle  in  England  of 
the  people  is  to  destroy  this  superstition. 
What  has  roused  them  to  do  it  is  their 
distresses.  Perhaps,  on  this  account,  the 
present  distresses  of  this  nation  are  a 
fortunate  thing  though  so  horrid  in  their 
experience.  You  will  see  I  mean  that  the 
French  Revolution  put  a  temporary  stop 
to  this  third  change  —  the  change  for  the 
better  —  Now  it  is  in  progress  again,  and 
I  think  it  is  an  effectual  one.  This  is  no 
contest  between  Whig  and  Tory,  but  be- 
tween right  and  wrong.  There  is  scarcely 
a  grain  of  party  spirit  now  in  England. 
Right  and  wrong  considered  by  each  man 
abstractedly,  is  the  fashion.  I  know  very 
little  of  these  things.  I  am  convinced, 
however,  that  apparently  small  causes 
make  great  alterations.  There  are  little 
signs  whereby  we  may  know  how  matters 
are  going  on.  This  makes  the  business  of 
Carlisle  the  bookseller  of  great  amount  in 
my  mind.  He  has  been  selling  deistical 
pamphlets,  republished  Tom  Paine,  and 
many  other  works  held  in  superstitious 
horror.  He  even  has  been  selling,  for 
some  time,  immense  numbers  of  a  work 
called  The  Deist,  which  comes  out  in 
weekly  numbers.  For  this  conduct  he,  I 
think,  has  had  about  a  dozen  indictments 
issued  against  him,  for  which  he  has  found 


TO  GEORGE  AND  GEORGIANA  KEATS 


399 


bail  to  the  amount  of  many  thousand 
pounds.  After  all,  they  are  afraid  to  pro- 
secute. They  are  afraid  of  his  defence  ;  it 
would  be  published  in  all  the  papers  all 
over  the  empire.  They  shudder  at  this. 
The  trials  would  light  a  flame  they  could 
not  extinguish.  Do  you  not  think  this  of 
great  import  ?  You  will  hear  by  the 
papers  of  the  proceedings  at  Manchester, 
and  Hunt's  triumphal  entry  into  Lon- 
don.53 It  would  take  me  a  whole  day 
and  a  quire  of  paper  to  give  you  any- 
thing like  detail.  I  will  .merely  mention 
that  it  is  calculated  that  30,000  people 
were  in  the  streets  waiting  for  him.  The 
whole  distance  from  the  Angel  at  Islington 
to  the  Crown  and  Anchor  was  lined  with 
multitudes. 

As  I  passed  Colnaghi's  window  I  saw  a 
profile  portrait  of  Sandt,  the  destroyer  of 
Kotzebue.  His  very  look  must  interest 
every  one  in  his  favour.  I  suppose  they 
have  represented  him  in  his  college  dress. 
He  seems  to  me  like  a  young  Abelard  —  a 
fine  mouth,  cheek  bones  (and  this  is  no 
joke)  full  of  sentiment,  a  fine,  unvulgar 
nose,  and  plump  temples. 

On  looking  over  some  letters  I  found  the 
one  I  wrote,  intended  for  you,  from  the 
foot  of  Helvellyn  to  Liverpool  ;  but  you 
had  sailed,  and  therefore  it  was  returned  to 
me.  It  contained,  among  other  nonsense, 
an  acrostic  of  my  sister's  name  —  and  a 
pretty  long  name  it  is.  I  wrote  it  in  a 
great  hurry  which  you  will  see.  Indeed  I 
would  not  copy  it  if  I  thought  it  would 
ever  be  seen  by  any  but  yourselves.  [See 
p.  243.] 

I  sent  you  in  my  first  packet  some  of 
my  Scotch  letters.  I  find  I  have  one  kept 
back,  which  was  written  in  the  most  inter- 
esting part  of  our  tour,  and  will  copy  part 
of  it  in  the  hope  you  will  not  find  it  unamus- 
ing.  I  would  give  now  anything  for  Rich- 
ardson's power  of  making  mountains  of 
molehills. 

Incipit  epistola  caledoniensa  — • 


'  Dunancullen.' 

(I  did  not  know  the  day  of  the  month,  for 
I  find  I  have  not  added  it.  Brown  must 
have  been  asleep).  'Just  after  my  last 
had  gone  to  the  post '  (before  I  go  any 
further,  I  must  premise  that  I  would  send 
the  identical  letter,  instead  of  taking  the 
trouble  to  copy  it  ;  I  do  not  do  so,  for  it 
would  spoil  my  notion  of  the  neat  manner 
in  which  I  intend  to  fold  these  three  gen- 
teel sheets.  The  original  is  written  on 
coarse  paper,  and  the  soft  one  would  ride 
in  the  post  bag  very  uneasy.  Perhaps 
there  might  be  a  quarrel  *  ... 

I  ought  to  make  a  large  *  ? '  here,  but  I 
had  better  take  the  opportunity  of  telling 
you  I  have  got  rid  of  my  haunting  sore 
throat,  and  conduct  myself  in  a  manner  not 
to  catch  another. 

You  speak  of  Lord  Byron  and  me.  There 
is  this  great  difference  between  us  :  he  de- 
scribes what  he  sees  —  I  describe  what  I 
imagine.  Mine  is  the  hardest  task  ;  now 
see  the  immense  difference.  The  Edin- 
burgh Reviewers  are  afraid  to  touch  upon 
my  poem.  They  do  not  know  what  to 
make  of  it ;  they  do  not  like  to  condemn  it, 
and  they  will  not  praise  it  for  fear.  They 
are  as  shy  of  it  as  I  should  be  of  wearing  a 
Quaker's  hat.  The  fact  is,  they  have  no 
real  taste.  They  dare  not  compromise  their 
judgments  on  so  puzzling  a  question.  If 
on  my  next  publication  they  should  praise 
me,  and  so  lug  in  Endymion,  I  will  address 
them  in  a  manner  they  will  not  at  all  relish. 
The  cowardliness  of  the  Edinburgh  is  more 
than  the  abuse  of  the  Quarterly. 

*  Keats  here  copies,  with  slight  changes  and 
abridgments,  his  letter  to  Tom  of  July  23,  1818 
(see  above,  p.  320)  ending  with  the  lines  written 
after  visiting  Staffa:  as  to  which  he  adds,  'I 
find  I  must  keep  memorandums  of  the  verses 
I  send  you,  for  I  do  not  remember  whether  I 
have  sent  the  following  lines  upon  Staffa.  I 
hope  not;  'twould  be  a  horrid  bore  to  you, 
especially  after  reading  this  dull  specimen  of 
description.  For  myself  I  hate  descriptions. 
I  would  not  send  it  if  it  were  not  mine.' 


400 


LETTERS   OF   JOHN    KEATS 


Monday  [September  20]. 
This  day  is  a  grand  day  for  Winchester. 
They  elect  the  mayor.  It  was  indeed  high 
time  the  place  should  have  some  sort  of 
excitement.  There  was  nothing  going  on 
—  all  asleep.  Not  an  old  maid's  sedan  re- 
turning from  a  card  party  ;  and  if  any  old 
women  have  got  tipsy  at  christenings,  they 
have  not  exposed  themselves  in  the  street. 
The  first  night,  though,  of  our  arrival  here 
there  was  a  slight  uproar  took  place  at 
about  ten  of  the  clock.  We  heard  dis- 
tinctly a  noise  patting  down  the  street,  as 
of  a  walking-cane  of  the  good  old  dowager 
breed  ;  and  a  little  minute  after  we  heard 
a  less  voice  observe,  '  What  a  noise  the 
f erril  made  —  it  must  be  loose.'  Brown 
wanted  to  call  the  constables,  but  I  ob- 
served it  was  only  a  little  breeze,  and 
would  soon  pass  over.  The  side  streets 
here  are  excessively  maiden-lady-like  ;  the 
doorsteps  always  fresh  from  the  flannel. 
The  knockers  have  a  very  staid,  serious, 
nay  almost  awful  quietness  about  them.  I 
never  saw  so  quiet  a  collection  of  lions' 
and  rams'  heads.  The  doors  most  part 
black,  with  a  little  brass  handle  just  above 
the  kevhole,  so  that  you  may  easily  shut 
yourself  out  of  your  own  house.  He  !  He  ! 
There  is  none  of  your  Lady  Bellaston  ring- 
ing and  rapping  here  ;  no  thundering 
Jupiter-footmen,  no  opera-treble  tattoos, 
but  a  modest  lifting  up  of  the  knocker  by 
a  set  of  little  wee  old  fingers  that  peep 
through  the  gray  mittens,  and  a  dying  fall 
thereof.  The  great  beauty  of  poetry  is 
that  it  makes  everything  in  every  place  in- 
teresting. The  palatine  Venice  and  the 
abbotine  Winchester  are  equally  interest- 
ing. Some  time  since  I  began  a  poem 
called  « The  Eve  of  St.  Mark,'  quite  in  the 
spirit  of  town  quietude.  I  think  I  will 
give  you  the  sensation  of  walking  about  an 
old  country  town  in  a  coolish  evening.  I 
know  not  whether  I  shall  ever  finish  it  ;  I 
will  give  it  as  far  as  I  have  gone.  Ut 
tibi  placeat  — 

[The  Eve  of  St.  Mark.    See  p.  196.] 


I  hope  you  will  like  this  for  all  its  care- 
lessness. I  must  take  an  opportunity  here 
to  observe  that  though  I  am  writing  to  you, 
I  am  all  the  while  writing  at  your  wife. 
This  explanation  will  account  for  my  speak- 
ing sometimes  hoity-toity-ishly,  whereas  if 
you  were  alone,  I  should  sport  a  little  more 
sober  sadness.  I  am  like  a  squinty  gentle- 
man, who,  saying  soft  things  to  one  lady 
ogles  another,  or  what  is  as  bad,  in  arguing 
with  a  person  on  his  left  hand,  appeals 
with  his  eyes  to  one  on  the  right.  His 
vision  is  elastic  ;  he  bends  it  to  a  certain 
object,  but  having  a  patent  spring  it  flies  off. 
Writing  has  this  disadvantage  of  speaking 
—  one  cannot  write  a  wink,  or  a  nod,  or  a 
grin,  or  a  purse  of  the  lips,  or  a  smile  —  0 
law  !  One  cannot  put  one's  finger  to  one's 
nose,  or  yerk  ye  in  the  ribs,  or  lay  hold  of 
your  button  in  writing  ;  but  in  all  the  most 
lively  and  titterly  parts  of  my  letter  you 
must  not  fail  to  imagine  me,  as  the  epic 
poets  say,  now  here,  now  there  ;  now  with 
one  foot  pointed  at  the  ceiling,  now  with 
another  ;  now  with  my  pen  on  nay  ear,  now 
with  my  elbow  in  my  mouth.  O,  my  friends, 
you  lose  the  action,  and  attitude  is  every- 
thing, as  Fuseli  said  when  he  took  up  his  leg 
like  a  musket  to  shoot  a  swallow  just  dart- 
ing behind  his  shoulder.  And  yet  does 
not  the  word  '  mum '  go  for  one's  finger 
beside  the  nose  ?  I  hope  it  does.  I  have 
to  make  use  of  the  word  *  mum '  before  I 
tell  you  that  Severn  has  got  a  little  baby  — 
all  his  own,  let  us  hope.  He  told  Brown 
he  had  given  up  painting,  and  had  turned 
modeller.  I  hope  sincerely  't  is  not  a  party 

concern  —  that   no  Mr. or is  the 

real  Pinxit  and  Severn  the  poor  Sculpsit  to 
this  work  of  art.  You  know  he  has  long 
studied  in  the  life  Academy.  «  Haydon  — 
yes,'  your  wife  will  say,  'Here  is  a  sum 
total  account  of  Haydon  again.  I  wonder 
your  brother  don't  put  a  monthly  bulletin 
in  the  Philadelphia  papers  about  him.  I 
won't  hear  —  no.  Skip  down  to  the  bottom, 
and  there  are  some  more  of  his  verses  — 
skip  (lullaby-by)  them  too.'  —  «  No,  let 's 


TO  GEORGE  AND  GEORGIANA  KEATS 


401 


go  regularly  through.'  —  '  I  won't  hear  a 
word  about  Haydon  —  bless  the  child,  how 
rioty  she  is  —  there,  go  on  there.' 

Now,  pray  go  on  here,  for  I  have  a  few 
words  to  say  about  Haydon.  Before  this 
chancery  threat  had  cut  off  every  legiti- 
mate supply  of  cash  from  me,  I  had  a  little 
at  my  disposal.  Haydon  being  very  much 
in  want,  I  lent  him  £30  of  it.  Now  in  this 
see-saw  game  of  life,  I  got  nearest  to  the 
ground,  and  this  chancery  business  riveted 
me  there,  so  that  I  was  sitting  in  that  un- 
easy position  where  the  seat  slants  so 
abominably.  I  applied  to  him  for  pay- 
ment. He  could  not.  That  was  no  won- 
der ;  but  Goodman  Delver,  where  was  the 
wonder  then  ?  Why  marry  in  this  :  he 
did  not  seem  to  care  much  about  it,  and  let 
me  go  without  my  money  with  almost  non- 
chalance, when  he  ought  to  have  sold  his 
drawings  to  supply  me.  I  shall  perhaps 
still  be  acquainted  with  him,  but  for  friend- 
ship, that  is  at  an  end.  Brown  has  been 
my  friend  in  this.  He  got  him  to  sign  a 
bond,  payable  at  three  months.  Haslam 
has  assisted  me  with  the  return  of  part  of 
the  money  you  lent  him. 

Hunt  —  '  there,'  says  your  wife,  *  there 's 
another  of  those  dull  folk  !  Not  a  syllable 
about  my  friends  ?  Well,  Hunt  —  What 
about  Hunt  ?  You  little  thing,  see  how  she 
bites  my  finger  !  My  !  is  not  this  a  tooth  ?  ' 
Well  when  you  have  done  with  the  tooth, 
read  on.  Not  a  syllable  about  your  friends  ! 
Here  are  some  syllables.  As  far  as  I  could 
smoke  things  on  the  Sunday  before  last, 
thus  matters  stood  in  Henrietta  Street. 
Henry  was  a  greater  blade  then  ever  I  re- 
member to  have  seen  him.  He  had  on  a 
very  nice  coat,  a  becoming  waistcoat,  and 
buff  trousers.  I  think  his  face  has  lost  a 
little  of  the  Spanish-brown,  but  no  flesh. 
He  carved  some  beef  exactly  to  suit  my 
appetite,  as  if  I  had  been  measured  for  it. 
As  I  stood  looking  out  of  the  window  with 
Charles,  after  dinner,  quizzing  the  passen- 
gers, —  at  which  I  am  sorry  to  say  he  is  too 
iipt,  —  I  observed  that  this  young  son  of  a 


gtm's  whiskers  had  begun  to  curl  and  curl, 
little  twists  and  twists,  all  down  the  sides 
of  his  face,  getting  properly  thickest  on  the 
angles  of  the  visage.  He  certainly  will 
have  a  notable  pair  of  whiskers.  *  How 
shiny  your  gown  is  in  front,'  says  Charles. 
<  Why  don't  you  see  ?  't  is  an  apron,'  says 
Henry;  whereat  I  scrutinised,  and  behold 
your  mother  had  a  purple  stuff  gown  on, 
and  over  it  an  apron  of  the  same  colour, 
being  the  same  cloth  that  was  used  for  the 
lining.  And  furthermore  to  account  for 
the  shining,  it  was  the  first  day  of  wearing. 
I  guessed  as  much  of  the  gown  —  but  that 
is  entre  nous.  Charles  likes  England  better 
than  France.  They've  got  a  fat,  smiling, 
fair  cook  as  ever  you  saw  ;  she  is  a  little 
lame,  but  that  improves  her  ;  it  makes  her 
go  more  swimmingly.  When  I  asked  *  Is 
Mrs.  Wylie  within  ? '  she  gave  me  such 
a  large  five-and-thirty-year-old  smile,  it 
made  me  look  round  upon  the  fourth  stair — 
it  might  have  been  the  fifth  ;  but  that 's  a 
puzzle.  I  shall  never  be  able,  if  I  were  to 
set  myself  a  recollecting  for  a  year,  to  re- 
collect. I  think  I  remember  two  or  three 
specks  in  her  teeth,  but  I  really  can't  say 
exactly.  Your  mother  said  something  about 
Miss  Keasle  —  what  that  was  is  quite  a 
riddle  to  me  now,  whether  she  had  got 
fatter  or  thinner,  or  broader  or  longer, 
straiter,  or  had  taken  to  the  zigzags  — 
whether  she  had  taken  to  or  had  left  off 
asses'  milk.  That,  by  the  bye,  she  ought 
never  to  touch.  How  much  better  it  would 
be  to  put  her  out  to  nurse  with  the  wise 
woman  of  Brentford.  I  can  say  no  more 
on  so  spare  a  subject.  Miss  Millar  now  is 
a  different  morsel,  if  one  knew  how  to 
divide  and  subdivide,  theme  her  out  into 
sections  and  subsections,  lay  a  little  on 
every  part  of  her  body  as  it  is  divided,  in 
common  with  all  her  fellow  -  creatures, 
in  Moor's  Almanack.  But,  alas,  I  have  not 
heard  a  word  about  her,  no  cue  to  begin 
upon  :  there  was  indeed  a  buzz  about  her 
and  her  mother's  being  at  old  Mrs.  So  and 
So's,  who  was  like  to  die,  as  the  Jews  say. 


402 


LETTERS    OF   JOHN    KEATS 


But  I  dare  say,  keeping  up  their  dialect, 
she  was  not  like  to  die.  I  must  tell  you  a 
good  thing  Reynolds  did.  'T  was  the  best 
thing  he  ever  said.  You  know  at  taking 
leave  of  a  party  at  a  doorway,  sometimes  a 
man  dallies  and  foolishes  and  gets  awkward, 
and  does  not  know  how  to  make  off  to  ad- 
vantage. Good-bye  —  well,  good-bye  — 
and  yet  he  does  not  go;  good-bye,  and  so 
on,  —  well,  good  bless  you  —  you  know 
what  I  mean.  Now  Reynolds  was  in  this 
predicament,  and  got  out  of  it  in  a  very 
witty  way.  He  was  leaving  us  at  Hamp- 
stead.  He  delayed,  and  we  were  pressing 
at  him,  and  even  said  '  be  off,'  at  which  he 
put  the  tails  of  his  coat  between  his  legs 
and  sneak'd  off  as  nigh  like  a  spaniel  as 
could  be.  He  went  with  flying  colours. 
This  is  very  clever.  I  must,  being  upon 
the  subject,  tell  you  another  good  thing  of 
him.  He  began,  for  the  service  it  might 
be  of  to  him  in  the  law,  to  learn  French  ; 
he  had  lessons  at  the  cheap  rate  of  2s.  6d. 
per  fag,  and  observed  to  Brown,  '  Gad,' 
says  he,  'the  man  sells  his  lessons  so  cheap 
he  must  have  stolen  'em.'  You  have  heard 
of  Hook,  the  farce  writer.  Horace  Smith 
said  to  one  who  asked  him  if  he  knew 
Hook,  '  Oh  yes,  Hook  and  I  are  very  in- 
timate.' There  's  a  page  of  wit  for  you,  to 
put  John  Bunyan's  emblems  out  of  coun- 
tenance. 

Tuesday  [September  21]. 
You  see  I  keep  adding  a  sheet  daily  till 
I  send  the  packet  off,  which  I  shall  not  do 
for  a  few  days,  as  I  am  inclined  to  write  a 
good  deal ;  for  there  can  be  nothing  so  re- 
membrancing  and  enchaining  as  a  good 
long  letter,  be  it  composed  of  what  it  may. 
From  the  time  you  left  me  our  friends  say 
I  have  altered  completely  —  am  not  the 
same  person.  Perhaps  in  this  letter  I  am, 
for  in  a  letter  one  takes  up  one's  existence 
from  the  time  we  last  met.  I  daresay  you 
have  altered  also  —  every  man  does  —  our 
bodies  every  seven  years  are  completely 
material'd.  Seven  years  ago  it  was  not  this 


hand  that  clinched  itself  against  Hammond. 
We  are  like  the  relict  garments  of  a  saint 
—  the  same  and  not  the  same,  for  the  care- 
ful monks  patch  it  and  patch  it  till  there 's 
not  a  thread  of  the  original  garment  left, 
and  still  they  show  it  for  St.  Anthony's 
shirt.  This  is  the  reason  why  men  who 
have  been  bosom  friends,  on  being  separated 
for  any  number  of  years  meet  coldly,  neither 
of  them  knowing  why.  The  fact  is  they  are 
both  altered. 

Men  who  live  together  have  a  silent 
moulding  and  influencing  power  over  each 
other.  They  interassimilate.  'T  is  an  un- 
easy thought,  that  in  seven  years  the  same 
hands  cannot  greet  each  other  again.  All 
this  may  be  obviated  by  a  wilful  and  dra- 
matic exercise  of  our  minds  towards  each 
other.  Some  think  I  have  lost  that  poetic 
ardour  and  fire  't  is  said  I  once  had  —  the 
fact  is,  perhaps  I  have ;  but,  instead  of  that, 
I  hope  I  shall  substitute  a  more  thoughtful 
and  quiet  power.  I  am  more  frequently 
now  contented  to  read  and  think,  but  now 
and  then  haunted  with  ambitious  thoughts. 
Quieter  in  my  pulse,  improved  in  my  diges- 
tion, exerting  myself  against  vexing  specu- 
lations, scarcely  content  to  write  the  best 
verses  for  the  fever  they  leave  behind.  I 
want  to  compose  without  this  fever.  I  hope 
I  one  day  shall.  You  would  scarcely  ima- 
gine I  could  live  alone  so  comfortably. 
'  Kepen  in  solitarinesse.*1  I  told  Anne,  the 
servant  here,  the  other  day,  to  say  I  was 
not  at  home  if  any  one  should  call.  I  am 
not  certain  how  I  should  endure  loneliness 
and  bad  weather  together.  Now  the  time  is 
beautiful.  I  take  a  walk  every  day  for  an 
hour  before  dinner,  and  this  is  generally  my 
walk  :  I  go  out  the  back  gate,  across  one 
street  into  the  cathedral  yard,  which  is  al- 
ways interesting  ;  there  I  pass  under  the 
trees  along  a  paved  path,  pass  the  beautiful 
front  of  the  cathedral,  turn  to  the  left 
under  a  stone  doorway,  —  then  I  am  on  the 
other  side  of  the  building,  —  which  leaving 
behind  me,  I  pass  on  through  two  college- 
like  squares,  seemingly  built  for  the  dwel- 


TO  GEORGE  AND  GEORGIANA  KEATS 


403 


ling-place  of  deans  and  prebendaries,  gar- 
nished with  grass  and  shaded  with  trees; 
then  I  pass  through  one  of  the  old  city 
gates,  and  then  you  are  in  one  college 
street,  through  which  I  pass  and  at  the 
end  thereof  crossing  some  meadows,  and 
at  last  a  country  alley  of  gardens,  I  ar- 
rive, that  is  my  worship  arrives,  at  the 
foundation  of  St.  Cross,  which  is  a  very 
interesting  old  place,  both  for  its  gothic 
tower  and  alms  square  and  for  the  ap- 
propriation of  its  rich  rents  to  a  relation 
of  the  Bishop  of  Winchester.  Then  I  pass 
across  St.  Cross  meadows  till  you  come  to 
the  most  beautifully  clear  river  —  now  this 
is  only  one  mile  of  my  walk.  I  will  spare 
you  the  other  two  till  after  supper,  when 
they  would  do  you  more  good.  You 
must  avoid  going  the  first  mile  best  after 
dinner  — 

[Wednesday,  September  22.] 
I  could  almost  advise  you  to  put  by  this 
nonsense  until  you  are  lifted  out  of  your 
difficulties ;  but  when  you  come  to  this  part, 
feel  with  confidence  what  I  now  feel,  that 
though  there  can  be  no  stop  put  to  trou- 
bles we  are  inheritors  of,  there  can  be, 
and  must  be,  an  end  to  immediate  diffi- 
culties. Rest  in  the  confidence  that  I  will 
not  omit  any  exertion  to  benefit  you  by 
some  means  or  other  —  If  I  cannot  remit 
you  hundreds,  I  will  tens,  and  if  not  that, 
ones.  Let  the  next  year  be  managed  by 
you  as  well  as  possible  —  the  next  month, 
I  mean,  for  I  trust  you  will  soon  re- 
ceive Abbey's  remittance.  What  he  can 
send  you  will  not  be  a  sufficient  capital 
to  ensure  you  any  command  in  America. 
What  he  has  of  mine  I  have  nearly  antici- 
pated by  debts,  so  I  would  advise  you  not 
to  sink  it,  but  to  live  upon  it,  in  hopes  of 
iny  being  able  to  increase  it.  To  this  end 
I  will  devote  whatever  I  may  gain  for  a 
few  years  to  come,  at  which  period  I  must 
begin  to  think  of  a  security  of  my  own 
comforts,  when  quiet  will  become  more 
pleasant  to  me  than  the  world.  Still  I 
urould  have  you  doubt  my  success.  'T  is  at 


present  the  cast  of  a  die  with  me.  You  say, 
*  These  things  will  be  a  great  torment  to 
me.'  I  shall  not  suffer  them  to  be  so.  I 
shall  only  exert  myself  the  more,  while  the 
seriousness  of  their  nature  will  prevent  me 
from  nursing  up  imaginary  griefs.  I  have 
not  had  the  blue  devils  once  since  I  received 
your  last.  I  am  advised  not  to  publish 
till  it  is  seen  whether  the  tragedy  will  or 
not  succeed.  Should  it,  a  few  months  may 
see  me  in  the  way  of  acquiring  property. 
Should  it  not,  it  will  be  a  drawback,  and 
I  shall  have  to  perform  a  longer  literary 
pilgrimage.  You  will  perceive  that  it  is 
quite  out  of  my  interest  to  come  to  Amer- 
ica. What  could  I  do  there  ?  How  could 
I  employ  myself  out  of  reach  of  libraries  ? 
You  do  not  mention  the  name  of  the  gentle- 
man who  assists  you.  'T  is  an  extraordinary 
thing.  How  could  you  do  without  that 
assistance  ?  I  will  not  trust  myself  with 
brooding  over  this.  The  following  is  an 
extract  from  a  letter  of  Reynolds  to  me :  — 

'  I  am  glad  to  hear  you  are  getting  on  so 
well  with  your  writings.  I  hope  you  are  not 
neglecting  the  revision  of  your  poems  for 
the  press,  from  which  I  expect  more  than 
you  do.' 

The  first  thought  that  struck  me  on 
reading  your  last  was  to  mortgage  a  poem 
to  Murray,  but  on  more  consideration,  I 
made  my  mind  not  to  do  so;  my  reputation 
is  very  low;  he  would  not  have  negotiated 
my  bill  of  intellect,  or  given  me  a  very 
small  sum.  I  should  have  bound  myself 
down  for  some  time.  'Tis  best  to  meet 
present  misfortunes;  not  for  a  momentary 
good  to  sacrifice  great  benefits  which  one's 
own  untrammelPd  and  free  industry  may 
bring  one  in  the  end.  In  all  this  do  never 
think  of  me  as  in  any  way  unhappy:  I  shall 
not  be  so.  I  have  a  great  pleasure  in  think- 
ing of  my  responsibility  to  you,  and  shall 
do  myself  the  greatest  luxury  if  I  can  suc- 
ceed in  any  way  so  as  to  be  of  assistance  to 
you.  We  shall  look  back  upon  these  times, 
even  before  our  eyes  are  at  all  dim  —  I  am 
convinced  of  it.  But  be  careful  of  those 


404 


LETTERS   OF   JOHN   KEATS 


Americans.  I  could  almost  advise  you  to 
come,  whenever  you  have  the  sum  of  £500, 
to  England.  Those  Americans  will,  I  am 
afraid,  still  fleece  you.  If  ever  you  think 
of  such  a  thing,  you  must  bear  in  mind  the 
very  different  state  of  society  here,  —  the 
immense  difficulties  of  the  times,  the  great 
sum  required  per  annum  to  maintain  your- 
self in  any  decency.  In  fact  the  whole  is 
with  Providence.  I  know  not  how  to  advise 
you  but  by  advising  you  to  advise  with 
yourself.  In  your  next  tell  me  at  large 
your  thoughts  about  America  —  what 
chance  there  is  of  succeeding  there,  for  it 
appears  to  me  you  have  as  yet  been  some- 
how deceived.  I  cannot  help  thinking  Mr. 
Audubon  has  deceived  you.  I  shall  not 
like  the  sight  of  him.  I  shall  endeavour  to 
avoid  seeing  him.  You  see  how  puzzled  I 
am.  I  have  no  meridian  to  fix  you  to, 
being  the  slave  of  what  is  to  happen.  I 
think  I  may  bid  you  finally  remain  in  good 
hopes,  and  not  tease  yourself  with  my 
changes  and  variations  of  mind.  If  I  say 
nothing  decisive  in  any  one  particular  part 
of  my  letter,  you  may  glean  the  truth 
from  the  whole  pretty  correctly.  You  may 
wonder  why  I  had  not  put  your  affairs 
with  Abbey  in  train  on  receiving  your 
letter  before  last,  to  which  there  will  reach 
you  a  short  answer  dated  from  Shanklin. 
I  did  write  and  speak  to  Abbey,  but  to  no 
purpose.  Your  last,  with  the  enclosed  note, 
has  appealed  home  to  him.  He  will  not 
see  the  necessity  of  a  thing  till  he  is  hit  in 
the  mouth.  T  will  be  effectual. 

I  am  sorry  to  mix  up  foolish  and  serious 
things  together,  but  in  writing  so  much  I 
am  obliged  to  do  so,  and  I  hope  sincerely 
the  tenor  of  your  mind  will  maintain  itself 
better.  In  the  course  of  a  few  months  I 
shall  be  as  good  an  Italian  scholar  as  I  am 
a  French  one.  I  am  reading  Ariosto  at 
present,  not  managing  more  than  six  or 
eight  stanzas  at  a  time.  When  I  have 
done  this  language,  so  as  to  be  able  to  read 
it  tolerably  well,  I  shall  set  myself  to  get 
complete  in  Latin,  and  there  my  learning 


must  stop.  I  do  not  think  of  returning 
upon  Greek.  I  would  not  go  even  so  far 
if  I  were  not  persuaded  of  the  power  the 
knowledge  of  any  language  gives  one.  The 
fact  is  I  like  to  be  acquainted  with  foreign 
languages.  It  is,  besides,  a  nice  way  of 
filling  up  intervals,  etc.  Also  the  reading 
of  Dante  is  well  worth  the  while;  and  in 
Latin  there  is  a  fund  of  curious  literature 
of  the  Middle  Ages,  the  works  of  many 
great  men  —  Aretino  and  Sannazaro  and 
Machiavelli.  I  shall  never  become  at- 
tached to  a  foreign  idiom,  so  as  to  put  it 
into  my  writings.  The  Paradise  Lost, 
though  so  fine  in  itself,  is  a  corruption  of 
our  language.  It  should  be  kept  as  it  is  — 
unique,  a  curiosity,  a  beautiful  and  grand 
curiosity,  the  most  remarkable  production 
of  the  world  ;  a  northern  dialect  accommo- 
dating itself  to  Greek  and  Latin  inversions 
and  intonations.  The  purest  English,  I 
think  —  or  what  ought  to  be  purest  —  is 
Chatterton's.  The  language  had  existed 
long  enough  to  be  entirely  uncorrupted  of 
Chaucer's  Gallicisms,  and  still  the  old 
words  are  used.  Chatterton's  language 
is  entirely  northern.  I  prefer  the  native 
music  of  it  to  Milton's,  cut  by  feet.  I  have 
but  lately  stood  on  my  guard  against  Mil- 
ton. Life  to  him  would  be  death  to  me. 
Miltonic  verse  cannot  be  written,  but  is  the 
verse  of  art.  I  wish  to  devote  myself  to 
another  verse  alone. 

Friday  [September  24]. 
I  have  been  obliged  to  intermit  your  let- 
ter for  two  days  (this  being  Friday  morn- 
ing), from  having  had  to  attend  to  other 
correspondence.  Brown,  who  was  at  Bed- 
hampton,  went  thence  to  Chichester,  and  I 
am  still  directing  my  letters  Bedhamp- 
ton.  There  arose  a  misunderstanding  about 
them.  I  began  to  suspect  my  letters  had 
been  stopped  from  curiosity.  However, 
yesterday  Brown  had  four  letters  from  me 
all  in  a  lump,  and  the  matter  is  cleared  up. 
Brown  complained  very  much  in  his  letter 
to  me  of  yesterday  of  the  great  alteration 


TO  GEORGE  AND  GEORGIANA  KEATS 


405 


the  disposition  of  Dilke  has  undergone. 
He  thinks  of  nothing  but  political  justice 
and  his  boy.  Now,  the  first  political  duty 
a  man  ought  to  have  a  mind  to  is  the  hap- 
piness of  his  friends.  I  wrote  Brown  a 
comment  on  the  subject,  wherein  I  ex- 
plained what  I  thought  of  Dilke's  charac- 
ter, which  resolved  itself  into  this  conclu- 
sion, that  Dilke  was  a  man  who  cannot  feel 
he  has  a  personal  identity  unless  he  has 
made  up  his  mind  about  everything.  The 
only  means  of  strengthening  one's  intellect 
is  to  make  up  one's  mind  about  nothing  — 
to  let  the  mind  be  a  thoroughfare  for  all 
thoughts,  not  a  select  party.  The  genus  is 
not  scarce  in  population  ;  all  the  stubborn 
arguers  you  meet  with  are  of  the  same 
brood.  They  never  begin  upon  a  subject 
they  have  not  pre-resolved  on.  They  want 
to  hammer  their  nail  into  you,  and  if  you 
have  the  point,  still  they  think  you  wrong. 
Dilke  will  never  come  at  a  truth  as  long  as 
he  lives,  because  he  is  always  trying  at  it. 
He  is  a  Godwin  Methodist. 

I  must  not  forget  to  mention  that  your 
mother  show'd  me  the  lock  of  hair  —  't  is 
of  a  very  dark  colour  for  so  young  a  crea- 
ture. Then  it  is  two  feet  in  length.  I 
shall  not  stand  a  barley  corn  higher.  That 's 
not  fair;  one  ought  to  go  on  growing  as 
well  as  others.  At  the  end  of  this  sheet  I 
shall  stop  for  the  present  and  send  it  off. 
You  may  expect  another  letter  immediately 
after  it.  As  I  never  know  the  day  of  the 
month  but  by  chance,  I  put  'here  that  this 
is  the  24th  September. 

I  would  wish  you  here  to  stop  your  ears, 
for  I  have  a  word  or  two  to  say  to  your 
wife. 

MY  DEAR  SISTER  —  In  the  first  place'  I 
must  quarrel  with  you  for  sending  me  such 
a  shabby  piece  -of  paper,  though  that  is  in 
some  degree  made  up  for  by  the  beautiful 
impression  of  the  seal.  You  should  like  to 
know  what  I  was  doing  the  first  of  May. 
Let  me  see  —  I  cannot  recollect.  I  have 
all  the  Examiners  ready  to  send  —  they 


will  be  a  great  treat  to  you  when  they  reach 
you.  I  shall  pack  them  up  when  my  busi- 
ness with  Abbey  has  come  to  a  good  con- 
clusion, and  the  remittance  is  on  the  road 
to  you.  I  have  dealt  round  your  best 
wishes  like  a  pack  of  cards,  but  being  al- 
ways given  to  cheat  myself,  I  have  turned 
up  ace.  You  see  I  am  making  game  of 
you.  I  see  you  are  not  all  happy  in  that 
America.  England,  however,  would  not  be 
over  happy  for  you  if  you  were  here.  Per- 
haps 't  would  be  better  to  be  teased  here 
than  there.  I  must  preach  patience  to  you 
both.  No  step  hasty  or  injurious  to  you 
must  be  taken.  You  say  let  one  large 
sheet  be  all  to  me.  You  will  find  more 
than  that  in  different  parts  of  this  packet 
for  you.  Certainly,  I  have  been  caught  in 
rains.  A  catch  in  the  rain  occasioned  my 
last  sore  throat;  but  as  for  red-haired  girls, 
upon  my  word,  I  do  not  recollect  ever  hav- 
ing seen  one.  Are  you  quizzing  me  or  Miss 
Waldegrave  when  you  talk  of  promenad- 
ing ?  As  for  pun-making,  I  wish  it  was  as 
good  a  trade  as  pin-making.  There  is  very 
little  business  of  that  sort  going  on  now. 
We  struck  for  wages,  like  the  Manchester 
weavers,  but  to  no  purpose.  So  we  are  all 
out  of  employ.  I  am  more  lucky  than 
some,  you  see,  by  having  an  opportunity  of 
exporting  a  few  —  getting  into  a  little  for- 
eign trade,  which  is  a  comfortable  thing.  I 
wish  one  could  get  change  for  a  pun  in 
silver  currency.  I  would  give  three  and  a 
half  any  night  to  get  into  Drury  pit,  but 
they  won't  ring  at  all.  No  more  will  notes 
you  will  say;  but  notes  are  different  things, 
though  they  make  together  a  pun-note  as 
the  term  goes.  If  I  were  your  son,  I 
shouldn't  mind  you,  though  you  rapt  me 
with  the  scissors.  But,  Lord  !  I  should  be 
out  of  favour  when  the  little  un  be  comm'd. 
You  have  made  an  uncle  of  me,  you  have, 
and  I  don't  know  what  to  make  of  myself. 
I  suppose  next  there  will  be  a  nevey.  You 
say  in  my  last,  write  directly.  I  have  not 
received  your  letter  above  ten  days.  The 
thought  of  your  little  girl  puts  me  in  mind 


406 


LETTERS   OF   JOHN   KEATS 


of  a  thing  I  heard  a  Mr.  Lamb  say.  A 
child  in  arms  was  passing  by  towards  its 
mother,  in  the  nurse's  arms.  Lamb  took 
hold  of  the  long  clothes,  saying  :  *  Where, 
God  bless  me,  where  does  it  leave  off  ? ' 

Saturday  [September  25] . 
If  you  would  prefer  a  joke  or  two  to 
anything  else,  I  have  two  for  you,  fresh 
hatched,  just  ris,  as  the  bakers'  wives  say 
by  the  rolls.  The  first  I  played  off  on 
Brown ;  the  second  I  played  on  myself. 
Brown,  when  he  left  me,  *  Keats,'  says  he, 
*  my  good  fellow  '  (staggering  upon  his  left 
heel  and  fetching  an  irregular  pirouette 
with  his  right) ;  *  Keats,'  says  he  (depress- 
ing his  left  eyebrow  and  elevating  his  right 
one),  though  by  the  way  at  the  moment  I 
did  not  know  which  was  the  right  one  ; 
'  Keats,'  says  he  (still  in  the  same  posture, 
but  furthermore  both  his  hands  in  his  waist- 
coat pockets  and  putting  out  his  stomach), 
1  Keats  —  my  —  go-o-ood  f ell-o-o-ooh,'  says 
he  (interlarding  his  exclamation  with  cer- 
tain ventriloquial  parentheses),  —  no,  this 
is  all  a  lie  —  He  was  as  sober  as  a  judge, 
when  a  judge  happens  to  be  sober,  and 
said:  'Keats,  if  any  letters  come  for  me, 
do  not  forward  them,  but  open  them  and 
give  me  the  marrow  of  them  in  a  few 
words.'  At  the  time  I  wrote  my  first  to 
him  no  letter  had  arrived.  I  thought  I 
would  invent  one,  and  as  I  had  not  time  to 
manufacture  a  long  one,  I  dabbed  off  a 
short  one,  and  that  was  the  reason  of  the 
joke  succeeding  beyond  my  expectations. 
Brown  let  his  house  to  a  Mr.  Benjamin  —  a 
Jew.  Now,  the  water  which  furnishes  the 
house  is  in  a  tank,  sided  with  a  composition 
of  lime,  and  the  lime  impregnates  the  water 
unpleasantly.  Taking  advantage  of  this 
circumstance,  I  pretended  that  Mr.  Benja- 
min had  written  the  following  short  note  — 

SIB  —  By   drinking   your   damn'd   tank 
water  -I  have  got  the  gravel.     What  repa- 
ration can  you  make  to  me  and  my  family  ? 
NATHAN  BENJAMIN. 


By  a  fortunate  hit,  I  hit  upon  his  right 
—  heathen  name  —  his  right  pronomen. 
Brown  in  consequence,  it  appears,  wrote  to 
the  surprised  Mr.  Benjamin  the  follow- 
ing— 

SIR  —  I  cannot  offer  you  any  remunera- 
tion until  your  gravel  shall  have  formed 
itself  into  a  stone  —  when  I  will  cut  you 
with  pleasure.  C.  BROWN. 

This  of  Brown's  Mr.  Benjamin  has  an- 
swered, insisting  on  an  explanation  of  this 
singular  circumstance.  B.  says  :  *  When  I 
read  your  letter  and  his  following,  I  roared; 
and  in  came  Mr.  Snook,  who  on  reading 
them  seem'd  likely  to  burst  the  hoops  of 
his  fat  sides.'  So  the  joke  has  told  well. 

Now  for  the  one  I  played  on  myself.  1 
must  first  give  you  the  scene  and  the  dra- 
matis personse.  There  are  an  old  major 
and  his  youngish  wife  here  in  the  next  ap- 
partments  to  me.  His  bedroom  door  opens 
at  an  angle  with  my  sitting-room  door. 
Yesterday  I  was  reading  as  demurely  as  a 
parish  clerk,  when  I  heard  a  rap  at  the 
door.  I  got  up  and  opened  it;  no  one  was 
to  be  seen.  I  listened,  and  heard  some  one 
in  the  major's  room.  Not  content  with 
this,  I  went  upstairs  and  down,  looked  in 
the  cupboards  and  watch'd.  At  last  I  set 
myself  to  read  again,  not  quite  so  demurely, 
when  there  came  a  louder  rap.  I  was  de- 
termined to  find  out  who  it  was.  I  looked 
out;  the  staircases  were  all  silent.  'This 
must  be  the  major's  wife,'  said  I.  '  At  all 
events  I  will  see  the  truth.'  So  I  rapt  me 
at  the  major's  door  and  went  in,  to  the  utter 
surprise  and  confusion  of  the  lady,  who  was 
in  reality  there.  After  a  little  explanation, 
which  I  can  no  more  describe  than  fly,  I 
made  my  retreat  from  her,  convinced  of  my 
mistake.  She  is  to  all  appearance  a  silly 
body,  and  is  really  surprised  about  it.  She 
must  have  been,  for  I  have  discovered  that 
a  little  girl  in  the  house  was  the  rapper.  I 
assure  you  she  has  nearly  made  me  sneeze. 
If  the  lady  tells  tits,  I  shall  put  a  very 


TO  GEORGE  AND  GEORGIANA  KEATS 


407 


grave  and  moral  face  on  the  matter  with 
the  old  gentleman,  and  make  his  little  boy 
a  present  of  a  humming  top. 

[Monday,  September  27.] 
MY  DEAR  GEORGE  —  This  Monday  morn- 
ing, the  27th,  I  have  received  your  last, 
dated  12th  July.  You  say  you  have  not 
heard  from  England  for  three  months. 
Then  my  letter  from  Shanklin,  written,  I 
think,  at  the  end  of  June,  has  not  reach'd 
you.  You  shall  not  have  cause  to  think  I 
neglect  you.  I  have  kept  this  back  a  little 
time  in  expectation  of  hearing  from  Mr. 
Abbey.  You  will  say  I  might  have  re- 
mained in  town  to  be  Abbey's  messenger 
in  these  affairs.  That  I  offered  him,  but 
he  in  his  answer  convinced  me  that  he  was 
anxious  to  bring  the  business  to  an  issue. 
He  observed,  that  by  being  himself  the 
agent  in  the  whole,  people  might  be  more 
expeditious.  You  say  you  have  not  heard 
for  three  months,  and  yet  your  letters  have 
the  tone  of  knowing  how  our  affairs  are 
situated,  by  which  I  conjecture  I  acquainted 
you  with  them  in  a  letter  previous  to  the 
Shanklin  one.  That  I  may  not  have  done. 
To  be  certain,  I  will  here  state  that  it  is  in 
consequence  of  Mrs.  Jennings  threatening  a 
chancery  suit  that  you  have  been  kept  from 
the  receipt  of  monies,  and  myself  deprived 
of  any  help  from  Abbey.  I  am  glad  you  say 
you  keep  up  your  spirits.  I  hope  you  make 
a  true  statement  on  that  score.  Still  keep 
them  up,  for  we  are  all  young.  I  can  only 
repeat  here  that  you  shall  hear  from  me 
again  immediately.  Notwithstanding  this 
bad  intelligence,  I  have  experienced  some 
pleasure  in  receiving  so  correctly  two  let- 
ters from  you,  as  it  gives  me,  if  I  may  so 
say,  a  distant  idea  of  proximity.  This  last 
improves  upon  my  little  niece  —  kiss  her 
for  me.  Do  not  fret  yourself  about  the 
delay  of  money  on  account  of  my  imme- 
diate opportunity  being  lost,  for  in  a  new 
country  whoever  has  money  must  have  an 
opportunity  of  employing  it  in  many  ways. 
The  report  runs  now  more  in  favour  of 


Kean  stopping  in  England.  If  he  should, 
I  have  confident  hopes  of  our  tragedy.  If 
he  invokes  the  hot-blooded  character  of 
Ludolph,  —  and  he  is  the  only  actor  that 
can  do  it,  —  he  will  add  to  his  own  fame 
and  improve  my  fortune.  I  will  give  you 
a  half-dozen  lines  of  it  before  I  part  as  a 
specimen  — 

Not  as  a  swordsman  would  I  pardon  crave, 
But  as  a  son :  the  bronz'd  Centurion, 
Long-toil'd  in  foreign  wars,  and  whose  high 


Are  shaded  in  a  forest  of  tall  spears, 
Known  only  to  his  troop,  hath  greater  plea 
Of  favour  with  my  sire  than  I  can  have. 

Believe  me,  my  dear  brother  and  sister, 
your  affectionate  and  anxious  Brother 

JOHN  KEATS. 


130.      TO 

If  George  succeeds  it  will  be  better, 
certainly,  that  they  should  stop  in  America; 
if  not,  why  not  return  ?  It  is  better  in  ill 
luck  to  have  at  least  the  comfort  of  one's 
friends  than  to  be  shipwrecked  among 
Americans.  But  I  have  good  hopes  as  far 
as  I  can  judge  from  what  I  have  heard  of 
George.  He  should  by  this  time  be  taught 
alertness  and  carefulness.  If  they  should 
stop  in  America  for  five  or  six  years  let  us 
hope  they  may  have  about  three  children. 
Then  the  eldest  will  be  getting  old  enough 
to  be  society.  The  very  crying  will  keep 
their  ears  employed  and  their  spirits  from 
being  melancholy. 


131.      TO  JOHN  HAMILTON  REYNOLDS 

Winchester,  September  22, 1819. 
MY  DEAR  REYNOLDS  —  I  was  very  glad 
to  hear  from  Woodhouse  that  you  would 
meet  in  the  country.  I  hope  you  will  pass 
some  pleasant  time  together.  Which  I  wish 
to  make  pleasanter  by  a  brace  of  letters, 
very  highly  to  be  estimated,  as  really  I 


408 


LETTERS   OF   JOHN    KEATS 


have  had  very  bad  luck  with  this  sort  of 
game  this  season.  I  <kepen  in  solitari- 
nesse,'  for  Brown  has  gone  a-visiting.  I 
am  surprised  myself  at  the  pleasure  I  live 
alone  in.  I  can  give  you  no  news  of  the 
place  here,  or  any  other  idea  of  it  but  what 
I  have  to  this  effect  written  to  George. 
Yesterday  I  say  to  him  was  a  grand  day 
for  Winchester.  They  elected  a  Mayor. 
It  was  indeed  high  time  the  place  should 
receive  some  sort  of  excitement.  There 
was  nothing  going  on  :  all  asleep  :  not  an 
old  maid's  sedan  returning  from  a  card 
party:  and  if  any  old  woman  got  tipsy  at 
Christenings  they  did  not  expose  it  in  the 
streets.  The  first  night  though  of  our  ar- 
rival here,  there  was  a  slight  uproar  took 
place  at  about  10  o'  the  Clock.  We  heard 
distinctly  a  noise  pattering  down  the  High 
Street  as  of  a  walking  cane  of  the  good  old 
Dowager  breed  ;  and  a  little  minute  after 
we  heard  a  less  voice  observe  '  What  a 
noise  the  ferril  made  —  it  must  be  loose.' 
Brown  wanted  to  call  the  constables,  but  I 
observed  't  was  only  a  little  breeze  and 
would  soon  pass  over.  —  The  side  streets 
here  are  excessively  maiden-lady-like  :  the 
door-steps  always  fresh  from  the  flannel. 
The  knockers  have  a  staid  serious,  nay  al- " 
most  awful  quietness  about  them.  I  never 
saw  so  quiet  a  collection  of  Lions'  and 
Rams'  heads.  The  doors  are  most  part 
black,  with  a  little  brass  handle  just  above 
the  keyhole,  so  that  in  Winchester  a  man 
may  very  quietly  shut  himself  out  of  his 
own  house.  How  beautiful  the  season  is 
now  —  How  fine  the  air.  A  temperate 
sharpness  about  it.  Really,  without  joking, 
chaste  weather  —  Dian  skies  —  I  never 
liked  stubble-fields  so  much  as  now  —  Aye 
better  than  the  chilly  green  of  the  Spring. 
Somehow,  a  stubble-field  looks  warm  —  in 
the  same  way  that  some  pictures  look 
warm.  This  struck  me  so  much  in  my 
Sunday's  walk  that  I  composed  upon  it. 
[The  Ode  to  Autumn,  p.  213.] 

I  hope  you  are  better  employed  than  in 
gaping  after  weather.     I  have  been  at  dif- 


ferent times  so  happy  as  riot  to  know  what 
weather  it  was  —  No  I  will  not  copy  a 
parcel  of  verses.  I  always  somehow  asso- 
ciate Chatterton  with  autumn.  He  is  the 
purest  writer  in  the  English  Language. 
He  has  no  French  idiom  or  particles,  like 
Chaucer  —  't  is  genuine  English  Idiom  in 
English  words.  I  have  given  up  Hyperion 

—  there  were  too  many  Miltonic  inversions 
in  it  —  Miltonic  verse  cannot  be  written 
but  in  an  artful,  or,  rather,  artist's  humour. 
I  wish  to  give  myself  up  to  other  sensa- 
tions.    English  ought  to  be  kept  up.     It 
may  be  interesting  to  you  to  pick  out  some 
lines  from  Hyperion,  and  put  a  mark  X  to 
the  false  beauty  proceeding  from  art,  and 
one  ||  to  the  true  voice  of  feeling.     Upon 
my  soul 't  was  imagination  —  I  cannot  make 
the  distinction  —  Every  now  and  then  there 
is  a  Miltonic   intonation  —  But  I  cannot 
make  the  division  properly.     The  fact  is,  I 
must  take  a  walk  :  for  I  am  writing  a  long 
letter  to  George:  and  have  been  employed 
at  it  all  the  morning.     You  will  ask,  have 
I  heard  from  George.     I  am  sorry  to  say 
not   the   best  news  —  I  hope   for  better. 
This  is  the  reason,  among  others,  that  if  I 
write  to  you  it  must  be  in  such  a  scrap-like 
way.     I  have  no  meridian  to  date  interests 
from,  or  measure  circumstances  —  To-night 
I  am  all  in  a  mist  ;  I  scarcely  know  what 's 
what  —  But  you  knowing  my  unsteady  and 
vagarish  disposition,  will  guess  that  all  this 
turmoil  will  be  settled  by  to-morrow  morn- 
ing.   It  strikes  me  to-night  that  I  have  led 
a  very  odd  sort  of  life  for  the  two  or  three 
last  years  —  Here  and  there  —  no  anchor  — 
I  am  glad  of  it.  —  If  you  can  get  a  peep  at 
Babbicombe  before  you  leave  the  country, 
do.  —  I  think  it   the   finest  place  I  have 
seen,  or  is  to  be  seen,  in  the  South.     There 
is  a  Cottage  there  I  took  warm  water  at, 
that  made  up  for  the  tea.     I  have  lately 
shirk'd  some  friends  of  ours,  and  I  advise 
you  to  do  the  same,  I  mean  the  blue-devils 

—  I  am  never  at  home  to  them.    You  need 
not  fear  them  while  you  remain  in  Devon- 
shire —  there  will  be  some  of  the  family 


TO    CHARLES    WENTWORTH    DILKE 


409 


waiting  for  you  at  the  Coach  office  —  but 
go  by  another  Coach. 

I  shall  beg  leave  to  have  a  third  opinion 
in  the  first  discussion  you  have  with  Wood- 
house  —  just  half-way,  between  both.  You 
know  I  will  not  give  up  my  argument  — 
In  my  walk  to-day  I  stoop'd  under  a  rail- 
ing that  lay  across  my  path,  and  asked 
myself  'Why  I  did  not  get  over.'  'Be- 
cause,' answered  I,  '  no  one  wanted  to  force 
you  under.'  I  would  give  a  guinea  to  be  a 
reasonable  man  —  good  sound  sense  —  a 
says  what  he  thinks  and  does  what  he  says 
man  —  and  did  not  take  snuff.  They  say 
men  near  death,  however  mad  they  may 
have  been,  come  to  their  senses  —  I  hope  I 
shall  here  in  this  letter  —  there  is  a  decent 
space  to  be  very  sensible  in  —  many  a  good 
proverb  has  been  in  less  —  nay,  I  have 
heard  of  the  statutes  at  large  being  changed 
into  the  Statutes  at  Small  and  printed  for 
a  watch  paper. 

Your  sisters,  by  this  time,  must  have  got 
the  Devonshire  '  ees  '  —  short  ees  —  you 
know  'em  —  they  are  the  prettiest  ees  in 
the  language.  O  how  I  admire  the  middle- 
sized  delicate  Devonshire  girls  of  about 
fifteen.  There  was  one  at  an  Inn  door 
holding  a  quartern  of  brandy  —  the  very 
thought  of  her  kept  me  warm  a  whole 
stage  —  and  a  16  miler  too  —  '  You  '11 
pardon  me  for  being  jocular.' 

Ever  your  affectionate  friend 

JOHN  KEATS. 

132.      TO  CHARLES  WENTWORTH  DILKE 

Winchester,  Wednesday  Eve. 

[September  22,  1819.] 

MY  DEAR  DILKE  —  Whatever  I  take 
to  for  the  time  I  cannot  leave  off  in  a 
hurry  ;  letter  writing  is  the  go  now  ;  I 
have  consumed  a  quire  at  least.  You  must 
give  me  credit,  now,  for  a  free  Letter  when 
it  is  in  reality  an  interested  one,  on  two 
points,  the  one  requestive,  the  other  verg- 
ing to  the  pros  and  cons.  As  I  expect  they 
will  lead  me  to  seeing  and  conferring  with 


you  in  a  short  time,  I  shall  not  enter  at  all 
upon  a  letter  I  have  lately  received  from 
George,  of  not  the  most  comfortable  in- 
telligence: but  proceed  to  these  two  points, 
which  if  you  can  theme  out  into  sections 
and  subsections,  for  my  edification,  you  will 
oblige  me.  This  first  I  shall  begin  upon, 
the  other  will  follow  like  a  tail  to  a  Comet. 
I  have  written  to  Brown  on  the  subject, 
and  can  but  go  over  the  same  ground  with 
you  in  a  very  short  time,  it  not  being  more 
in  length  than  the  ordinary  paces  between 
the  Wickets.  It  concerns  a  resolution  I 
have  taken  to  endeavour  to  acquire  some- 
thing by  temporary  writing  in  periodical 
works.  You  must  agree  with  me  how  un- 
wise it  is  to  keep  feeding  upon  hopes, 
which  depending  so  much  on  the  state  of 
temper  and  imagination,  appear  gloomy  or 
bright,  near  or  afar  off,  just  as  it  happens. 
Now  an  act  has  three  parts  —  to  act,  to  do, 
and  to  perform  —  I  mean  I  should  do  some- 
thing for  my  immediate  welfare.  Even  if 
I  am  swept  away  like  a  spider  from  a 
drawing-room,  I  am  determined  to  spin  — 
homespun  anything  for  sale.  Yea,  I  will 
traffic.  Anything  but  Mortgage  my  Brain 
to  Blackwood.  I  am  determined  not  to  lie 
like  a  dead  lump.  If  Reynolds  had  not 
taken  to  the  law,  would  he  not  be  earning 
something  ?  Why  cannot  I.  You  may  say 
I  want  tact  —  that  is  easily  acquired.  You 
may  be  up  to  the  slang  of  a  cock  pit  in 
three  battles.  It  is  fortunate  I  have  not 
before  this  been  tempted  to  venture  on  the 
common.  I  should  a  year  or  two  ago  have 
spoken  my  mind  on  every  subject  with  the 
utmost  simplicity.  I  hope  I  have  learned 
a  little  better  and  am  confident  I  shall  be 
able  to  cheat  as  well  as  any  literary  Jew  of 
the  Market  and  shine  up  an  article  on  any- 
thing without  much  knowledge  of  the  sub- 
ject, aye  like  an  orange.  I  would  willingly 
have  recourse  to  other  means.  I  cannot ; 
I  am  fit  for  nothing  but  literature.  Wait 
for  the  issue  of  this  Tragedy  ?  No  — 
there  cannot  be  greater  uncertainties  east, 
west,  north,  and  south  than  concerning 


4io 


LETTERS   OF   JOHN    KEATS 


dramatic  composition.  How  many  months 
must  I  wait !  Had  I  not  better  begin  to 
look  about  me  now  ?  If  better  events 
supersede  this  necessity  what  harm  will  be 
done  ?  I  have  no  trust  whatever  on  Poetry 
I  don't  wonder  at  it  —  the  marvel  is  to  me 
how  people  read  so  much  of  it.  I  think 
you  will  see  the  reasonableness  of  my  plan. 
To  forward  it  I  purpose  living  in  cheap 
Lodging  in  Town,  that  I  may  be  in  the 
reach  of  books  and  information,  of  which 
there  is  here  a  plentiful  lack.  If  I  can 
find  any  place  tolerably  comfortable  I  will 
settle  myself  and  fag  till  I  can  afford  to 
buy  Pleasure  —  which  if  I  never  can  afford 
I  must  go  without.  Talking  of  Pleasure, 
this  moment  I  was  writing  with  one  hand, 
and  with  the  other  holding  to  my  Mouth  a 
Nectarine  —  Good  God  how  fine.  It  went 
down  soft,  pulpy,  slushy,  oozy  —  all  its  de- 
licious embonpoint  melted  down  my  throat 
like  a  large  beatified  Strawberry.  I  shall 
certainly  breed.  Now  I  come  to  my  re- 
quest. Should  you  like  me  for  a  neighbour 
again  ?  Come,  plump  it  out,  I  won't  blush. 
I  should  also  be  in  the  neighbourhood  of 
Mrs.  Wylie,  which  I  should  be  glad  of, 
though  that  of  course  does  not  influence 
me.  Therefore  will  you  look  about  Mar- 
sham,  or  Rodney  [Romney  ?]  Street  for  a 
couple  of  rooms  for  me.  Rooms  like  the 
gallant's  legs  in  Massinger's  time,  « as  good 
as  the  times  allow,  Sir.'  I  have  written 
to-day  to  Reynolds,  and  to  Woodhouse. 
Do  you  know  him?  He  is  a  Friend  of 
Taylor's  at  whom  Brown  has  taken  one  of 
his  funny  odd  dislikes.  I  'm  sure  he  's 
wrong,  because  Woodhouse  likes  my  Poetry 
—  conclusive.  I  ask  your  opinion  and  yet 
I  must  say  to  you  as  to  him,  Brown,  that  if 
you  have  anything  to  say  against  it  I  shall 
be  as  obstinate  and  heady  as  a  Radical. 
By  the  Examiner  coming  in  your  hand- 
writing you  must  be  in  Town.  They  have 
put  me  into  spirits.  Notwithstanding  my 
aristocratic  temper  I  cannot  help  being  very 
much  pleased  with  the  present  public  pro- 
eeedings.  I  hope  sincerely  I  shall  be  able 


to  put  a  Mite  of  help  to  the  Liberal  side  of 
the  Question  before  I  die.  If  you  should 
have  left  Town  again  (for  your  Holidays 
cannot  be  up  yet)  let  me  know  when  this  is 
forwarded  to  you.  A  most  extraordinary 
mischance  has  befallen  two  letters  I  wrote 
Brown  —  one  from  London  whither  I  was 
obliged  to  go  on  business  for  George  ;  the 
other  from  this  place  since  my  return.  I 
can't  make  it  out.  I  am  excessively  sorry 
for  it.  1  shall  hear  from  Brown  and  from 
you  almost  together,  for  I  have  sent  him  a 
Letter  to-day  :  you  must  positively  agree 
with  me  or  by  the  delicate  toe  nails  of  the 
virgin  I  will  not  open  your  Letters.  If 
they  are  as  David  says  '  suspicious  looking 
letters '  I  won't  open  them.  If  St.  John  had 
been  half  as  cunning  he  might  have  seen 
the  revelations  comfortably  in  his  own  room, 
without  giving  angels  the  trouble  of  break- 
ing open  seals.  Remember  me  to  Mrs.  D. 
and  the  Westmonasteranian  and  believe  me 
Ever  your  sincere  friend  JOHN  KEATS. 

133.      TO  CHARLES  ARMITAGE   BROWN 

Winchester,  September  23,  1819. 

Now  I  am  going  to  enter  on  the  subject 
of  self.  It  is  quite  time  I  should  set  my- 
self doing  something,  and  live  no  longer 
upon  hopes.  I  have  never  yet  exerted  my- 
self. I  am  getting  into  an  idle-minded, 
vicious  way  of  life,  almost  content  to  live 
upon  others.  In  no  period  of  my  life  have 
I  acted  with  any  self-will  but  in  throw- 
ing up  the  apothecary  profession.  That  I 
do  not  repent  of.  Look  at  Reynolds,  if  he 
was  not  in  the  law,  he  would  be  acquiring, 
by  his  abilities,  something  towards  his  sup- 
port. My  occupation  is  entirely  literary  : 
I  will  do  so,  too.  I  will  write,  on  the  lib- 
eral side  of  the  question,  for  whoever  will 
pay  me.  I  have  not  known  yet  what  it  is 
to  be  diligent.  I  purpose  living  in  town  in 
a  cheap  lodging,  and  endeavouring,  for  a 
beginning,  to  get  the  theatricals  of  some 
paper.  When  I  can  afford  to  compose  de- 


TO    CHARLES    ARMITAGE   BROWN 


411 


liberate  poems,  I  will.  I  shall  be  in  ex- 
pectation of  an  answer  to  this.  Look  on 
my  side  of  the  question.  I  am  convinced 
I  am  right.  Suppose  the  tragedy  should 
succeed,  —  there  will  be  no  harm  done. 
And  here  I  will  take  an  opportunity  of 
making  a  remark  or  two  on  our  friendship, 
and  on  all  your  good  offices  to  me.  I  have 
a  natural  timidity  of  mind  in  these  mat- 
ters ;  liking  better  to  take  the  feeling  be- 
tween us  for  granted,  than  to  speak  of  it. 
But,  good  God  !  what  a  short  while  you 
have  known  me  !  I  feel  it  a  sort  of  duty 
thus  to  recapitulate,  however  unpleasant  it 
may  be  to  you.  You  have  been  living  for 
others  more  than  any  man  I  know.  This 
is  a  vexation  to  me,  because  it  has  been  de- 
priving you,  in  the  very  prime  of  your  life, 
of  pleasures  which  it  was  your  duty  to  pro- 
cure. As  I  am  speaking  in  general  terms, 
this  may  appear  nonsense  ;  you  perhaps 
will  not  understand  it  ;  but  if  you  can  go 
over,  day  by  day,  any  month  of  the  last 
year,  you  will  know  what  I  mean.  On  the 
whole  however  this  is  a  subject  that  I  can- 
not express  myself  upon  —  I  speculate  upon 
it  frequently  ;  and  believe  me  the  end  of 
my  speculations  is  always  an  anxiety  for 
your  happiness.  This  anxiety  will  not  be 
one  of  the  least  incitements  to  the  plan  I 
purpose  pursuing.  I  had  got  into  a  habit 
of  mind  of  looking  towards  you  as  a  help  in 
all  difficulties  —  This  very  habit  would  be 
the  parent  of  idleness  and  difficulties.  You 
will  see  it  is  a  duty  I  owe  myself  to  break 
the  neck  of  it.  I  do  nothing  for  my  sub- 
sistence —  make  no  exertion  —  At  the  end 
of  another  year  you  shall  applaud  me,  not 
for  verses,  but  for  conduct.  While  I  have 
some  immediate  cash,  I  had  better  settle 
myself  quietly,  and  fag  on  as  others  do.  I 
shall  apply  to  Hazlitt,  who  knows  the  mar- 
ket as  well  as  any  one,  for  something  to 
bring  me  in  a  few  pounds  as  soon  as  possi- 
ble. I  shall  not  suffer  my  pride  to  hinder 
me.  The  whisper  may  go  round  ;  I  shall 
not  hear  it.  If  I  can  get  an  article  in  the 
Edinburgh,  I  will.  One  must  not  be  deli- 


cate —  Nor  let  this  disturb  you  longer  than 
a  moment.  I  look  forward  with  a  good 
hope  that  we  shall  one  day  be  passing  free, 
untrammelled,  unanxious  time  together. 
That  can  never  be  if  I  continue  a  dead 
lump.  I  shall  be  expecting  anxiously  an 
answer  from  you.  If  it  does  not  arrive  in 
a  few  days  this  will  have  miscarried,  and  I 

shall  come  straight  to before  I  go  to 

town,  which  you  I  am  sure  will  agree  had 
better  be  done  while  I  still  have  some  ready 
cash.  By  the  middle  of  October  I  shall 
expect  you  in  London.  We  will  then  set 
at  the  theatres.  If  you  have  anything  to 
gainsay,  I  shall  be  even  as  the  deaf  adder 
which  stoppeth  her  ears. 


134.      TO  THE  SAME 

Winchester,  September  23,  1819. 

Do  not  suffer  me  to  disturb  you  unplea- 
santly :  I  do  not  mean  that  you  should  not 
suffer  me  to  occupy  your  thoughts,  but  to 
occupy  them  pleasantly;  for  I  assure  you  I 
am  as  far  from  being  unhappy  as  possible. 
Imaginary  grievances  have  always  been 
more  my  torment  than  real  ones  —  You 
know  this  well  —  Real  ones  will  never  have 
any  other  effect  upon  me  than  to  stimulate 
me  to  get  out  of  or  avoid  them.  This  is 
easily  accounted  for  —  Our  imaginary  woes 
are  conjured  up  by  our  passions,  and  are 
fostered  by  passionate  feeling  :  our  real 
ones  come  of  themselves,  and  are  opposed 
by  an  abstract  exertion  of  mind.  Real 
grievances  are  displacers  of  passion.  The 
imaginary  nail  a  man  down  for  a  sufferer, 
as  on  a  cross;  the  real  spur  him  up  into  an 
agent.  I  wish,  at  one  view,  you  would  see 
my  heart  towards  you.  'T  is  only  from  a 
high  tone  of  feeling  that  I  can  put  that 
word  upon  paper  —  out  of  poetry.  I  ought 
to  have  waited  for  your  answer  to  my  last 
before  I  wrote  this.  I  felt  however  com- 
pelled to  make  a  joinder  to  yours.  I 
bad  written  to  Dilke  on  the  subject  of  my 


412 


LETTERS    OF  JOHN   KEATS 


last,  I  scarcely  know  whether  I  shall  send 
my  letter  now.  I  think  he  would  approve 
of  my  plan  ;  it  is  so  evident.  Nay,  I  am 
convinced,  out  and  out,  that  by  prosing  for 
a  while  in  periodical  works  I  may  maintain 
myself  decently. 


135.      TO   CHARLES  WENTWORTH  DILKE 

Winchester,  Friday,  October  1  [1819]. 

MY  DEAR  DILKE  —  For  sundry  reasons, 
which  I  will  explain  to  you  when  I  come  to 
Town,  I  have  to  request  you  will  do  me  a 
great  favour  as  I  must  call  it  knowing  how 
great  a  Bore  it  is.  That  your  imagination 
may  not  have  time  to  take  too  great  an 
alarm  I  state  immediately  that  I  want  you 
to  hire  me  a  couple  of  rooms  (a  Sitting 
Room  and  bed  room  for  myself  alone)  in 
Westminster.  Quietness  and  cheapness 
are  the  essentials:  but  as  I  shall  with  Brown 
be  returned  by  next  Friday  you  cannot  in 
that  space  have  sufficient  time  to  make  any 
choice  selection,  and  need  not  be  very  par- 
ticular as  I  can  when  on  the  spot  suit  my- 
self at  leisure.  Brown  bids  me  remind  you 
not  to  send  the  Examiners  after  the  third. 
Tell  Mrs.  D.  I  am  obliged  to  her  for  the 
late  ones  which  I  see  are  directed  in  her 
hand.  Excuse  this  mere  business  letter  for 
I  assure  you  I  have  not  a  syllable  at  hand 
on  any  subject  in  the  world. 

Your  sincere  friend         JOHN  KEATS. 


136.      TO  BENJAMIN  ROBERT  HAYDON 

Winchester,  Sunday  Morn  [October  3, 1819]. 
MY  DEAR  HAYDON  —  Certainly  I  might: 
but  a  few  Months  pass  away  before  we  are 
aware.  I  have  a  great  aversion  to  letter 
writing,  which  grows  more  and  more  upon 
me  ;  and  a  greater  to  summon  up  circum- 
stances before  me  of  an  unpleasant  nature. 
I  was  not  willing  to  trouble  you  with  them. 
Could  I  have  dated  from  my  Palace  of 
Milan  you  would  have  heard  from  me. 
Not  even  now  will  I  mention  a  word  of  my 


affairs  —  only  that  '  I  Rab  am  here '  but 
shall  not  be  here  more  than  a  Week  more, 
as  I  purpose  to  settle  in  Town  and  work 
my  way  with  the  rest.  I  hope  I  shall  never 
be  so  silly  as  to  injure  my  health  and  in- 
dustry for  the  future  by  speaking,  writing 
or  fretting  about  my  non- estate.  I  have 
no  quarrel,  I  assure  you,  of  so  weighty  a 
nature,  with  the  world,  on  my  own  account 
as  I  have  on  yours.  I  have  done  nothing 
—  except  for  the  amusement  of  a  few  peo- 
ple who  refine  upon  their  feelings  till  any- 
thing in  the  understandable  way  will  go 
down  with  them  —  people  predisposed  for 
sentiment.  I  have  no  cause  to  complain 
because  I  am  certain  anything  really  fine 
will  in  these  days  be  felt.  I  have  no  doubt 
that  if  I  had  written  Othello  I  should  have 
been  cheered  by  as  good  a  mob  as  Hunt. 
So  would  you  be  now  if  the  operation  of 
painting  was  as  universal  as  that  of  Writ- 
ing. It  is  not  :  and  therefore  it  did  behove 
men  I  could  mention  among  whom  I  must 
place  Sir  George  Beaumont  to  have  lifted 
you  up  above  sordid  cares.  That  this  has 
not  been  done  is  a  disgrace  to  the  country. 
I  know  very  little  of  Painting,  yet  your 
pictures  follow  me  into  the  Country.  When 
I  am  tired  of  reading  I  often  think  them 
over  and  as  often  condemn  the  spirit  of 
modern  Connoisseurs.  Upon  the  whole, 
indeed,  you  have  no  complaint  to  make,  be- 
ing able  to  say  what  so  few  Men  can,  '  I 
have  succeeded.'  On  sitting  down  to  write 
a  few  lines  to  you  these  are  the  uppermost 
in  my  mind,  and,  however  I  may  be  beating 
about  the  arctic  while  your  spirit  has  passed 
the  line,  you  may  lay  to  a  minute  and  con- 
sider I  am  earnest  as  far  as  I  can  see. 
Though  at  this  present  « I  have  great  dis- 
positions to  write '  I  feel  every  day  more  and 
more  content  to  read.  Books  are  becoming 
more  interesting  and  valuable  to  me.  I  may 
say  I  could  not  live  without  them.  If  in  the 
course  of  a  fortnight  you  can  procure  me  a 
ticket  to  the  British  Museum  I  will  make  a 
better  use  of  it  than  I  did  in  the  first  in- 
stance. I  shall  go  on  with  patience  in  the 


TO    FANNY    BRAWNE 


confidence  that  if  I  ever  do  anything  worth 
remembering  the  Reviewers  will  no  more 
be  able  to  stumble-block  me  than  the 
Royal  Academy  could  you.  They  have  the 
same  quarrel  with  you  that  the  Scotch 
nobles  had  with  Wallace.  The  fame  they 
have  lost  through  you  is  no  joke  to  them. 
Had  it  not  been  for  you  Fuseli  would  have 
been  not  as  he  is  major  but  maximus  domo. 
What  Reviewers  can  put  a  hindrance  to 
must  be  —  a  nothing  —  or  mediocre  which 
is  worse.  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  since  I 
saw  you  I  have  been  guilty  of  a  practical 
joke  upon  Brown  which  has  had  all  the 
success  of  an  innocent  Wildfire  among 
people.  Some  day  in  the  next  week  you 
shall  hear  it  from  me  by  word  of  Mouth. 
I  have  not  seen  the  portentous  Book  which 
was  skummer'd  at  you  just  as  I  left  town. 
It  may  be  light  enough  to  serve  you  as  a 
Cork  Jacket  and  save  you  for  a  while  the 
trouble  of  swimming.  I  heard  the  Man 
went  raking  and  rummaging  about  like  any 
Richardson.  That  and  the  Memoirs  of 
Menage  are  the  first  I  shall  be  at.  From 
Sr.  G.  B.'s,  Lord  Ms  54  and  particularly  Sr. 
John  Leicesters  good  lord  deliver  us.  I 
shall  expect  to  see  your  Picture  plumped 
out  like  a  ripe  Peach  —  you  would  not  be 
very  willing  to  give  me  a  slice  of  it.  I 
came  to  this  place  in  the  hopes  of  meeting 
with  a  Library  but  was  disappointed.  The 
High  Street  is  as  quiet  as  a  Lamb.  The 
knockers  are  dieted  to  three  raps  per  diem. 
The  walks  about  are  interesting  from  the 
many  old  Buildings  and  archways.  The 
view  of  the  High  Street  through  the  Gate 
of  the  City  in  the  beautiful  September 
evening  light  has  amused  me  frequently. 
The  bad  singing  of  the  Cathedral  I  do  not 
care  to  smoke  —  being  by  myself  I  am  not 
very  coy  in  my  taste.  At  St.  Cross  there 
is  an  interesting  picture  of  Albert  Durer's 
—  who  living  in  such  warlike  times  perhaps 
was  forced  to  paint  in  his  Gauntlets  —  so 
-we  must  make  all  allowances. 

I  am,  my  dear  Haydon,  Yours  ever 

JOHN  KEATS. 


Brown  has  a  few  words  to  say  to  you  and 
will  cross  this. 


137.      TO    FANNY  BKAWNE 

College  Street. 
[Postmark,  October  11,  1819.] 

MY  SWEET  GIRL  —  I  am  living  today  in 
yesterday  :  I  was  in  a  complete  fascination 
all  day.  I  feel  myself  at  your  mercy. 
Write  me  ever  so  few  lines  and  tell  me  you 
will  never  for  ever  be  less  kind  to  me  than 
yesterday. —  You  dazzled  me.  There  is  no- 
thing in  the  world  so  bright  and  delicate. 
When  Brown  came  out  with  that  seem- 
ingly true  story  against  me  last  night,  I 
felt  it  would  be  death  to  me  if  you  had 
ever  believed  it  —  though  against  any  one 
else  I  could  muster  up  my  obstinacy. 
Before  I  knew  Brown  could  disprove  it  I 
was  for  the  moment  miserable.  When 
shall  we  pass  a  day  alone  ?  I  have  had  a 
thousand  kisses,  for  which  with  my  whole 
soul  I  thank  love  —  but  if  you  should  deny 
me  the  thousand  and  first  —  't  would  put 
me  to  the  proof  how  great  a  misery  I  could 
live  through.  If  you  should  ever  carry 
your  threat  yesterday  into  execution  — 
believe  me  't  is  not  my  pride,  my  vanity  or 
any  petty  passion  would  torment  me  — 
really  't  would  hurt  my  heart  —  I  could  not 
bear  it.  I  have  seen  Mrs.  Dilke  this  morn- 
ing ;  she  says  she  will  come  with  me  any 
fine  day.  Ever  yours  JOHN  KEATS. 

Ah  herte  mine  ! 

138.      TO  THE  SAME 

25  College  Street. 
[Postmark,  October  13, 1819.] 

MY  DEAREST  GIRL  —  This  moment  I 
have  set  myself  to  copy  some  verses  out 
fair.  I  cannot  proceed  with  any  degree  of 
content.  I  must  write  you  a  line  or  two 
and  see  if  that  will  assist  in  dismissing  you 
from  my  Mind  for  ever  so  short  a  time. 
Upon  my  Soul  I  can  think  of  nothing  else. 
The  time  is  passed  when  I  had  power  to 


414 


LETTERS   OF  JOHN    KEATS 


advise  and  warn  you  against  the  unpromis- 
ing morning  of  my  Life.  My  love  has 
made  me  selfish.  I  cannot  exist  without 
you.  I  am  forgetful  of  everything  but 
seeing  you  again  —  my  Life  seems  to  stop 
there  —  I  see  no  further.  You  have  ab- 
sorb'd  me.  I  have  a  sensation  at  the  pre- 
sent moment  as  though  I  was  dissolving  — 
I  should  be  exquisitely  miserable  without 
the  hope  of  soon  seeing  you.  I  should  be 
afraid  to  separate  myself  far  from  you. 
My  sweet  Fanny,  will  your  heart  never 
change  ?  My  love,  will  it  ?  I  have  no 
limit  now  to  my  love.  .  .  .  Your  note  came 
in  just  here.  I  cannot  be  happier  away 
from  you.  'T  is  richer  than  any  Argosy  of 
Pearles.  Do  not  threat  me  even  in  jest. 
I  have  been  astonished  that  Men  could  die 
Martyrs  for  religion  —  I  have  shudder'd 
at  it.  I  shudder  no  more  —  I  could  be 
martyr'd  for  my  Religion  —  Love  is  my 
religion  —  I  could  die  for  that.  I  could 
die  for  you.  My  Creed  is  Love  and  you 
are  its  only  tenet.  You  have  ravish'd  me 
away  by  a  Power  I  cannot  resist  ;  and  yet 
I  could  resist  till  I  saw  you  ;  and  even 
since  I  have  seen  you  I  have  endeavoured 
often  *  to  reason  against  the  reasons  of  my 
Love.'  I  can  do  that  no  more  —  the  pain 
would  be  too  great.  My  love  is  selfish. 
I  cannot  breathe  without  you. 

Yours  for  ever  JOHN  KEATS. 

139.      TO  FANNY  KEATS 

Wentworth  Place  [October  16,  1819]. 
MY  DEAR  FANNY  —  My  Conscience  is 
always  reproaching  me  for  neglecting  you 
for  so  long  a  time.  I  have  been  returned 
from  Winchester  this  fortnight,  and  as  yet 
I  have  not  seen  you.  I  have  no  excuse  to 
offer  —  I  should  have  no  excuse.  I  shall 
expect  to  see  you  the  next  time  I  call  on 
Mr.  A.  about  George's  affairs  which  per- 
plex me  a  great  deal  —  I  should  have  to- 
day gone  to  see  if  you  were  in  town  —  but 
as  I  am  in  an  industrious  humour  (which 
is  so  necessary  to  my  livelihood  for  the 


future)  I  am  loath  to  break  through  it 
though  it  be  merely  for  one  day,  for  when 
I  am  inclined  I  can  do  a  great  deal  in  a 
day  —  I  am  more  fond  of  pleasure  than 
study  (many  men  have  preferr'd  the  lat- 
ter) but  I  have  become  resolved  to  know 
something  which  you  will  credit  when  I 
tell  you  I  have  left  off  animal  food  that  my 
brains  may  never  henceforth  be  in  a  great- 
er mist  than  is  theirs  by  nature  —  I  took 
lodgings  in  Westminster  for  the  purpose  of 
being  in  the  reach  of  Books,  but  am  now 
returned  to  Hampstead  being  induced  to  it 
by  the  habit  I  have  acquired  in  this  room  I 
am  now  in  and  also  from  the  pleasure  of 
being  free  from  paying  any  petty  atten- 
tions to  a  diminutive  house-keeping.  Mr. 
Brown  has  been  my  great  friend  for  some 
time  —  without  him  I  should  have  been  in, 
perhaps,  personal  distress  —  as  I  know  you 
love  me  though  I  do  not  deserve  it,  I  am 
sure  you  will  take  pleasure  in  being  a 
friend  to  Mr.  Brown  even  before  you  know 
him.  —  My  lodgings  for  two  or  three  days 
were  close  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Mrs. 
Dilke  who  never  sees  me  but  she  enquires 
after  you  —  I  have  had  letters  from 
George  lately  which  do  not  contain,  as  I 
think  I  told  you  in  my  last,  the  best  news 
—  I  have  hopes  for  the  best  —  I  trust  in  a 
good  termination  to  his  affairs  which  you 
please  God  will  soon  hear  of  —  It  is  better 
you  should  not  be  teased  with  the  particu- 
lars. The  whole  amount  of  the  ill  news  is 
that  his  mercantile  speculations  have  not 
had  success  in  consequence  of  the  general 
depression  of  trade  in  the  whole  province 
of  Kentucky  and  indeed  all  America.  — 
I  have  a  couple  of  shells  for  you  you  will 
call  pretty. 

Your  affectionate  Brother    JOHN . 

140.      TO  FANNY  BRAWNE 

Great  Smith  Street, 

Tuesday  Morn. 

[Postmark,  College  Street,  October  19,  1819]. 

MY    SWEET    FANNY  —  On    awakening 

from    my   three   days   dream    ('I   cry   to 


TO   JOHN   TAYLOR 


dream  again')  I  find  one  and  another 
astonish'd  at  my  idleness  and  thoughtless- 
ness. I  was  miserable  last  night  —  the 
morning  is  always  restorative.  I  must  be 
busy,  or  try  to  be  so.  I  have  several 
things  to  speak  to  you  of  tomorrow  morn- 
ing. Mrs.  Dilke  I  should  think  will  tell 
you  that  I  purpose  living  at  Hampstead. 
I  must  impose  chains  upon  myself.  I 
shall  be  able  to  do  nothing.  I  should  like 
to  cast  the  die  for  Love  or  death.  I  have 
no  Patience  with  anything  else  —  if  you 
ever  intend  to  be  cruel  to  me  as  you  say 
in  jest  now  but  perhaps  may  sometimes 
be  in  earnest,  be  so  now  —  and  I  will  — 
my  mind  is  in  a  tremble,  I  cannot  tell  what 
I  am  writing. 

Ever  my  love  yours        JOHN  KEATS. 

141.      TO    JOSEPH    SEVERN 

Wentworth  Place, Wednesday 
[October  27  ?  1819]. 

DEAR  SEVERN  —  Either  your  joke  about 
staying  at  home  is  a  very  old  one  or  I  really 
call'd.  I  don't  remember  doing  so.  I  am 
glad  to  hear  you  have  finish'd  the  Picture 
and  am  more  anxious  to  see  it  than  I  have 
time  to  spare  :  for  I  have  been  so  very  lax, 
unemployed,  unmeridian'd,  and  objectless 
these  two  months  that  I  even  grudge  in- 
dulging (and  that  is  no  great  indulgence 
considering  the  Lecture  is  not  over  till  9 
and  the  lecture  room  seven  miles  from 
Wentworth  Place)  myself  by  going  to 
Hazlitt's  Lecture.  If  you  have  hours  to 
the  amount  of  a  brace  of  dozens  to  throw 
away  you  may  sleep  nine  of  them  here  in 
your  little  Crib  and  chat  the  rest.  When 
your  Picture  is  up  and  in  a  good  light  I 
shall  make  a  point  of  meeting  you  at  the 
Academy  if  you  will  let  me  know  when. 
If  you  should  be  at  the  Lecture  to-morrow 
evening  I  shall  see  you  —  and  congratulate 
you  heartily  —  Haslam  I  know  *  is  very 
Beadle  to  an  amorous  sigh.' 

Your  sincere  friend         JOHN  KEATS. 


142.      TO   JOHN    TAYLOR 

Wentworth  Place,  Hampstead, 
November  17  [1819]. 

MY  DEAR  TAYLOR  —  I  have  come  to  a 
determination  not  to  publish  anything  I 
have  now  ready  written  :  but,  for  all  that, 
to  publish  a  poem  before  long,  and  that  I 
hope  to  make  a  fine  one.  As  the  marvel- 
lous is  the  most  enticing,  and  the  surest 
guarantee  of  harmonious  numbers,  I  have 
been  endeavouring  to  persuade  myself  to 
untether  Fancy,  and  to  let  her  manage  for 
herself.  I  and  myself  cannot  agree  about 
this  at  all.  Wonders  are  no  wonders  to  me. 
I  am  more  at  home  amongst  men  and 
women.  I  would  rather  read  Chaucer  than 
Ariosto.  The  little  dramatic  skill  I  may  as 
yet  have,  however  badly  it  might  show  in  a 
drama,  would,  I  think,  be  sufficient  for  a 
poem.  I  wish  to  diffuse  the  colouring  of  St. 
Agnes's  Eve  throughout  a  poem  in  which 
character  and  sentiment  would  be  the 
figures  to  such  drapery.  Two  or  three  such 
poems,  if  God  should  spare  me,  written  in 
the  course  of  the  next  six  years,  would  be  a 
famous  Gradus  ad  Parnassum  altissimum 
—  I  mean  they  would  nerve  me  up  to  the 
writing  of  a  few  fine  plays  —  my  greatest 
ambition,  when  I  do  feel  ambitious.  I  am 
sorry  to  say  that  is  very  seldom.  The 
subject  we  have  once  or  twice  talked  of 
appears  a  promising  one  —  The  Earl  of 
Leicester's  history.  I  am  this  morning 
reading  Holinshed's  *  Elizabeth.'  You  had 
some  books  a  while  ago  you  promised  to 
send  me,  illustrative  of  my  subject.  If 
you  can  lay  hold  of  them,  or  any  others 
which  may  be  serviceable  to  me,  I  know  you 
will  encourage  my  low-spirited  muse  by 
sending  them,  or  rather  by  letting  me  know 
where  our  errand-cart  man  shall  call  with 
my  little  box.  I  will  endeavour  to  set  my- 
self selfishly  at  work  on  this  poem  that  is 
to  be. 

Your  sincere  friend 

JOHN  KEATS. 


LETTERS   OF   JOHN   KEATS 


143.      TO  FANNY  KEATS 

Wednesday  Morn  — 

[November  17,  1819]. 

Mr  DEAR  FANNY  —  I  received  your  let- 
ter yesterday  Evening  and  will  obey  it  to- 
morrow. I  would  come  to-day  —  but  I 
have  been  to  Town  so  frequently  on 
George's  Business  it  makes  me  wish  to 
employ  to-day  at  Hampstead.  So  I  say 
Thursday  without  fail.  I  have  no  news  at 
all  entertaining  —  and  if  I  had  I  should 
not  have  time  to  tell  them  as  I  wish  to 
send  this  by  the  morning  Post. 

Your  affectionate  Brother 

JOHN. 


144.      TO  JOSEPH  SEVERN 

Wentworth  Place,  Monday  Morn  — 
[December  6  ?  1819]. 

MY  DEAR  SEVERN  —  I  am  very  sorry 
that  on  Tuesday  I  have  an  appointment  in 
the  City  of  an  undeferable  nature  ;  and 
Brown  on  the  same  day  has  some  business 
at  Guildhall.  I  have  not  been  able  to 
figure  your  manner  of  executing  the  Cave 
of  despair,55  therefore  it  will  be  at  any 
rate  a  novelty  and  surprise  to  me  —  I  trust 
on  the  right  side.  I  shall  call  upon  you 
some  morning  shortly,  early  enough  to 
catch  you  before  you  can  get  out  —  when 
we  will  proceed  to  the  Academy.  I  think 
you  must  be  suited  with  a  good  painting 
light  in  your  Bay  window.  I  wish  you  to 
return  the  Compliment  by  going  with  me 
to  see  a  Poem  I  have  hung  up  for  the 
Prize  in  the  Lecture  Room  of  the  Surry 
Institution.  I  have  many  Rivals,  the  most 
threatening  are  An  Ode  to  Lord  Castle- 
reagh,  and  a  new  series  of  Hymns  for  the 
New,  new  Jerusalem  Chapel.  (You  had 
best  put  me  into  your  Cave  of  despair.) 
Ever  yours  sincerely 

JOHN  KEATS. 


145.      TO  JAMES  RICE 

Wentworth  Place  [December  1819]. 
MY  DEAR  RICE  —  As  I  want  the  coat  on 
my  back  mended,  I  would  be  obliged  if 
you  would  send  me  the  one  Brown  left  at 
your  house  by  the  Bearer  —  During  your 
late  contest  I  had  regular  reports  of  you, 
how  that  your  time  was  completely  taken 
up  and  your  health  improving  —  I  shall 
call  in  the  course  of  a  few  days,  and  see 
whether  your  promotion  has  made  any  dif- 
ference in  your  Behaviour  to  us.  I  sup- 
pose Reynolds  has  given  you  an  account  of 
Brown  and  Elliston.  As  he  has  not  rejected 
our  Tragedy,  I  shall  not  venture  to  call 
him  directly  a  fool  ;  but  as  he  wishes  to 
put  it  off  till  next  season,  I  cannot  help 
thinking  him  little  better  than  a  knave.  — 
That  it  will  not  be  acted  this  season  is  yet 
uncertain.  Perhaps  we  may  give  it  another 
furbish  and  try  it  at  Covent  Garden. 
'T  would  do  one's  heart  good  to  see  Ma- 
cready  in  Ludolph.  If  you  do  not  see  me 
soon  it  will  be  from  the  humour  of  writing, 
which  I  have  had  for  three  days  continuing. 
I  must  say  to  the  Muses  what  the  maid 
says  to  the  Man  —  « Take  me  while  the 
fit  is  on  me.'  Would  you  like  a  true 
story  ?  '  There  was  a  man  and  his  wife 
who  being  to  go  a  long  Journey  on  foot,  in 
the  course  of  their  travels  came  to  a  river 
which  rolled  knee-deep  over  the  pebbles  — 
In  these  cases  the  man  generally  pulls  off 
his  shoes  and  stockings,  and  carries  the 
woman  over  on  his  back.  This  man  did  so. 
And  his  wife  being  pregnant  and  troubled, 
as  in  such  case  is  very  common,  with 
strange  longings,  took  the  strangest  that 
ever  was  heard  of.  Seeing  her  husband's 
foot,  a  handsome  one  enough,  looked  very 
clean  and  tempting  in  the  clear  water,  on 
their  arrival  at  the  other  bank,  she  ear- 
nestly demanded  a  bit  of  it.  He  being  an 
affectionate  fellow,  and  fearing  for  the 
comeliness  of  his  child,  gave  her  a  bit 


TO   FANNY   KEATS 


which  he  cut  off  with  his  clasp  knife  — 
Not  satisfied,  she  asked  for  another  morsel. 
Supposing  there  might  be  twins,  he  gave 
her  a  slice  more.  Not  yet  contented  she 
craved  another  piece.  "  You  wretch,"  cries 
the  man,  "  would  you  wish  me  to  kill  my- 
self ?  Take  that  "  —  upon  which  he  stabbed 
her  with  the  knife,  cut  her  open,  and  found 
three  children  in  her  Belly  :  two  of  them 
very  comfortable  with  their  mouths  shut, 
the  third  with  its  eyes  and  mouth  stark 
staring  wide  open.  "Who  would  have 
thought  it  ?  "  cried  the  widower,  and  pur- 
sued his  journey.'  Brown  has  a  little 
rumbling  in  his  stomach  this  morning. 
Ever  yours  sincerely  JOHN  KEATS. 

146.      TO  FANNY  KEATS 

Wentworth  Place,  Monday  Morn  — 
[December  20, 1819]. 

MY  DEAR  FANNY  —  When  I  saw  you 
last,  you  ask'd  me  whether  you  should  see 
me  again  before  Christmas.  You  would 
have  seen  me  if  I  had  been  quite  well.  I 
have  not,  though  not  unwell  enough  to  have 
prevented  me  —  not  indeed  at  all  —  but 
fearful  lest  the  weather  should  affect  my 
throat  which  on  exertion  or  cold  continually 
threatens  me. — By  the  advice  of  my  Doctor 
I  have  had  a  warm  great  Coat  made  and 
have  ordered  some  thick  shoes  —  so  f  ur- 
nish'd  I  shall  be  with  you  if  it  holds  a  little 
fine  before  Christmas  day.  —  I  have  been 
very  busy  since  I  saw  you,  especially  the 
last  Week,  and.  shall  be  for  some  time,  in 
preparing  some  Poems  to  come  out  in  the 
Spring,  and  also  in  brightening  the  inter- 
est of  our  Tragedy.  —  Of  the  Tragedy  I 
can  give  you  but  news  semigood.  It  is 
accepted  at  Drury  Lane  with  a  promise  of 
coming  out  next  season:  as  that  will  be  too 
long  a  delay  we  have  determined  to  get 
Elliston  to  bring  it  out  this  Season  or  to 
transfer  it  to  Covent  Garden.  This  Ellis- 
ton  will  not  like,  as  we  have  every  motive 
to  believe  that  Kean  has  perceived  how 
suitable  the  principal  Character  will  be  for 


him.  My  hopes  of  success  in  the  literary 
world  are  now  better  than  ever.  Mr.  Ab- 
bey, on  my  calling  on  him  lately,  appeared 
anxious  that  I  should  apply  myself  to 
something  else  —  He  mentioned  Tea  Brok- 
erage. I  supposed  he  might  perhaps  mean 
to  give  me  the  Brokerage  of  his  concern 
which  might  be  executed  with  little  trouble 
and  a  good  profit ;  and  therefore  said  I 
should  have  no  objection  to  it,  especially  as 
at  the  same  time  it  occurred  to  me  that  I 
might  make  over  the  business  to  George  — 
I  questioned  him  about  it  a  few  days  after. 
His  mind  takes  odd  turns.  When  I  be- 
came a  Suitor  he  became  coy.  He  did  not 
seem  so  much  inclined  to  serve  me.  He 
described  what  I  should  have  to  do  in  the 
progress  of  business.  It  will  not  suit  me.  I 
have  given  it  up.  I  have  not  heard  again 
from  George,  which  rather  disappoints  me, 
as  I  wish  to  hear  before  I  make  any  fresh 
remittance  of  his  property.  I  received  a 
note  from  Mrs.  Dilke  a  few  days  ago  in- 
viting me  to  dine  with  her  on  Xmas  day 
which  I  shall  do.  Mr.  Brown  and  I  go  on 
in  our  old  dog  trot  of  Breakfast,  dinner 
(not  tea,  for  we  have  left  that  off),  supper, 
Sleep,  Confab,  stirring  the  fire  and  read- 
ing. Whilst  I  was  in  the  Country  last 
Summer,  Mrs.  Bentley  tells  me,  a  woman 
in  mourning  calPd  on  me,  —  and  talk'd 
something  of  an  aunt  of  ours  —  I  am  so 
careless  a  fellow  I  did  not  enquire,  but  will 
particularly  :  On  Tuesday  I  am  going  to 
hear  some  Schoolboys  Speechify  on  break- 
ing up  day  —  I  '11  lay  you  a  pocket  piece 
we  shall  have  'My  name  is  Norval.'  I 
have  not  yet  look'd  for  the  Letter  you 
mention'd  as  it  is  mix'd  up  in  a  box  full  of 
papers  —  you  must  tell  me,  if  you  can 
recollect,  the  subject  of  it.  This  moment 
Bentley  brought  a  Letter  from  George  for 
me  to  deliver  to  Mrs.  Wylie  —  I  shall  see 
her  and  it  before  I  see  you.  The  Direction 
was  in  his  best  band  written  with  a  good 
Pen  and  sealed  with  a  Tassie's  Shakspeare 
such  as  I  gave  you  —  We  judge  of  people's 
hearts  by  their  Countenances  ;  may  we  not 


4i8 


LETTERS   OF   JOHN   KEATS 


judge  of  Letters  in  the  same  way  ?  —  if  so, 
the  Letter  does  not  contain  unpleasant  news 
—  Good  or  bad  spirits  have  an  effect  on 
the  handwriting.  This  direction  is  at  least 
unnervous  and  healthy.  Our  Sister  is  also 
well,  or  George  would  have  made  strange 
work  with  Ks  and  Ws.  The  little  Baby  is 
well  or  he  would  have  formed  precious 
vowels  and  Consonants  —  He  sent  off  the 
Letter  in  a  hurry,  or  the  mail  bag  was 
rather  a  warm  berth,  or  he  has  worn  out 
his  Seal,  for  the  Shakspeare's  head  is  flat- 
tened a  little.  This  is  close  muggy  weather 
as  they  say  at  the  Ale  houses. 

I  am  ever,  my  dear  Sister,  yours  affec- 
tionately JOHN  KEATS. 

147.      TO  THE   SAME 

Wentworth  Place,  Wednesday. 
[December  22, 1819.] 

MY  DEAR  FANNY  —  I  wrote  to  you  a 
Letter  directed  Walthamstow  the  day  be- 
fore yesterday  wherein  I  promised  to  see 
you  before  Christmas  day.  I  am  sorry  to 
say  I  have  been  and  continue  rather  unwell, 
and  therefore  shall  not  be  able  to  promise 
certainly.  I  have  not  seen  Mrs.  Wylie's 
Letter.  Excuse  my  dear  Fanny  this  very 
shabby  note. 

Your  affectionate  Brother  JOHN. 

148.      TO  GEORGIANA  AUGUSTA  KEATS 

Thursday,  January  13,  1820. 
MY  DEAR  Sis. :  By  the  time  you  receive 
this  your  trouble  will  be  over.  I  wish  you 
knew  they  were  half  over.  I  mean  that 
George  is  safe  in  England  and  in  good 
health.  To  write  to  you  by  him  is  almost 
like  following  one's  own  letter  in  the  mail. 
That  it  may  not  be  quite  so,  I  will  leave 
common  intelligence  out  of  the  question, 
and  write  wide  of  him  as  I  can.  I  fear  I 
must  be  dull,  having  had  no  good-natured 
flip  from  Fortune's  finger  since  I  saw  you, 
and  no  sideway  comfort  in  the  success  of 
my  friends.  I  could  almost  promise  that 


if  I  had  the  means  I  would  accompany 
George  back  to  America,  and  pay  you  a 
visit  of  a  few  months.  I  should  not  think 
much  of  the  time,  or  my  absence  from  my 
books  ;  or  I  have  no  right  to  think,  for  I 
am  very  idle.  But  then  I  ought  to  be 
diligent,  and  at  least  keep  myself  within 
the  reach  of  materials  for  diligence.  Dili- 
gence, that  I  do  not  mean  to  say  ;  I  should 
say  dreaming  over  my  books,  or  rather 
other  people's  books.  George  has  promised 
to  bring  you  to  England  when  the  five 
years  have  elapsed.  I  regret  very  much 
that  I  shall  not  be  able  to  see  you  before 
that  time,  and  even  then  I  must  hope  that 
your  affairs  will  be  in  so  prosperous  a  way 
as  to  induce  you  to  stop  longer.  Yours 
is  a  hardish  fate,  to  be  so  divided  among 
your  friends  and  settled  among  a  people 
you  hate.  You  will  find  it  improve.  You 
have  a  heart  that  will  take  hold  of  your 
children  ;  even  George's  absence  will  make 
things  better.  His  return  will  banish  what 
must  be  your  greatest  sorrow,  and  at  the 
same  time  minor  ones  with  it.  Robinson 
Crusoe,  when  he  saw  himself  in  danger  of 
perishing  on  the  waters,  looked  back  to  his 
island  as  to  the  haven  of  his  happiness,  and 
on  gaining  it  once  more  was  more  content 
with  his  solitude.  We  smoke  George  about 
his  little  girl.  He  runs  the  common-beaten 
road  of  every  father,  as  I  dare  say  you  do 
of  every  mother  :  there  is  no  child  like 
his  child,  so  original,  —  original  forsooth  ! 
However,  I  take  you  at  your  words.  I 
have  a  lively  faith  that  yours  is  the  very 
gem  of  all  children.  Ain't  I  its  uncle  ? 

On  Henry's  marriage  there  was  a  piece  of 
bride  cake  sent  me.  It  missed  its  way.  I 
suppose  the  carrier  or  coachman  was  a  con- 
juror, and  wanted  it  for  his  own  private 
use.  Last  Sunday  George  and  I  dined  at 
Millar's.  There  were  your  mother  and 
Charles  with  Fool  Lacon,  Esq.,  who  sent 
the  sly,  disinterested  shawl  to  Miss  Millar, 
with  his  own  heathen  name  engraved  in  the 
middle.  Charles  had  a  silk  handkerchief 
belonging  to  a  Miss  Grover,  with  whom  he 


TO   GEORGIANA   AUGUSTA   KEATS 


419 


pretended  to  be  smitten,  and  for  her  sake 
kept  exhibiting  and  adoring  the  handker- 
chief all  the  evening.  Fool  Lacon,  Esq., 
treated  it  with  a  little  venturesome,  trem- 
bling contumely,  whereupon  Charles  set  him 
quietly  down  on  the  floor,  from  where  he 
as  quietly  got  up.  This  process  was  re- 
peated at  supper  time,  when  your  mother 
said,  '  If  I  were  you  Mr.  Lacon  I  would 
not  let  him  do  so.'  Fool  Lacon,  Esq.,  did 
not  offer  any  remark.  He  will  undoubtedly 
die  in  his  bed.  Your  mother  did  not  look 
quite  so  well  on  Sunday.  Mrs.  Henry 
Wylie  is  excessively  quiet  before  people. 
I  hope  she  is  always  so.  Yesterday  we 
dined  at  Taylor's,  in  Fleet  Street.  George 
left  early  after  dinner  to  go  to  Deptford  ; 
he  will  make  all  square  there  for  me.  I 
could  not  go  with  him  —  I  did  not  like  the 
amusement.  Haslam  is  a  very  good  fellow 
indeed;  he  has  been  excessively  anxious 
and  kind  to  us.  But  is  this  fair  ?  He  has 
an  innamorata  at  Deptford,  and  he  has  been 
wanting  me  for  some  time  past  to  see  her. 
This  is  a  thing  which  it  is  impossible  not  to 
shirk.  A  man  is  like  a  magnet  —  he  must 
have  a  repelling  end.  So  how  am  I  to  see 
Haslam's  lady  and  family,  if  I  even  went  ? 
for  by  the  time  I  got  to  Greenwich  I  should 
have  repell'd  them  to  Blackheath,  and  by 
the  time  I  got  to  Deptford  they  would  be 
on  Shooter's  Hill  ;  when  I  came  to  Shooter 
Hill  they  would  alight  at  Chatham,  and  so 
on  till  I  drove  them  into  the  sea,  which  1 
think  might  be  indictable.  The  evening 
before  yesterday  we  had  a  pianoforte  hop  at 
Dilke's.  There  was  very  little  amusement 
in  the  room,  but  a  Scotchman  to  hate. 
Some  people,  you  must  have  observed,  have 
a  most  unpleasant  effect  upon  you  when 
you  see  them  speaking  in  profile.  This 
Scotchman  is  the  most  accomplished  fellow 
in  this  way  I  ever  met  with.  The  effect 
was  complete.  It  went  down  like  a  dose 
of  bitter,  and  I  hope  will  improve  my 
digestion.  At  Taylor's  too,  there  was  a 
Scotchman,  —  not  quite  so  bad,  for  he  was 
as  clean  as  he  could  get  himself.  Not  hav- 


ing succeeded  in  Drury  Lane  with  our 
tragedy,  we  have  been  making  some  altera- 
tions, and  are  about  to  try  Covent  Garden. 
Brown  has  just  done  patching  up  the  copy 
—  as  it  is  altered.  The  reliance  I  had  on 
it  was  in  Kean's  acting.  I  am  not  afraid 
it  will  be  damn'd  in  the  Garden.  You  said 
in  one  of  your  letters  that  there  was  no- 
thing but  Hay  don  and  Co.  in  mine.  There 
can  be  nothing  of  him  in  this,  for  I  never 
see  him  or  Co.  George  has  introduced  to 
us  an  American  of  the  name  of  Hart.  I 
like  him  in  a  moderate  way.  He  was  at 
Mrs.  Dilke's  party  —  and  sitting  by  me  ; 
we  began  talking  about  English  and 

American  ladies.     The  Miss and  some 

of  their  friends  made  not  a  very  enticing 
row  opposite  us.  I  bade  him  mark  them 
and  form  his  judgment  of  them.  I  told 
him  I  hated  Englishmen  because  they  were 
the  only  men  I  knew.  He  does  not  under- 
stand this.  Who  would  be  Braggadochio 
to  Johnny  Bull  ?  Johnny's  house  is  his 
castle  —  and  a  precious  dull  castle  it  is  ; 
what  a  many  Bull  castles  there  are  in  so- 
and-so  crescent !  I  never  wish  myself  an 
unversed  writer  and  newsmonger  but  when 
I  write  to  you.  I  should  like  for  a  day  or 
two  to  have  somebody's  knowledge  —  Mr. 
Lacon's  for  instance  —  of  all  the  different 
folks  of  a  wide  acquaintance,  to  tell  you 
about.  Only  let  me  have  his  knowledge  of 
family  minutia3  and  I  would  set  them  in  a 
proper  light ;  but,  bless  me,  I  never  go  any- 
where. My  pen  is  no  more  garrulous  than 
my  tongue.  Any  third  person  would  think 
I  was  addressing  myself  to  a  lover  of 
scandal.  But  we  know  we  do  not  love 
scandal,  but  fun  ;  and  if  scandal  happens 
to  be  fun,  that  is  no  fault  of  ours.  There 
were  very  good  pickings  for  me  in  George's 
letters  about  the  prairie  settlement,  if  I  had 
any  taste  to  turn  them  to  account  in  Eng- 
land. I  knew  a  friend  of  Miss  Andrews,  yet 
I  never  mentioned  her  to  him  ;  for  after  I 
had  read  the  letter  I  really  did  not  recol- 
lect her  story.  Now  I  have  been  sitting 
here  half  an  hour  with  my  invention  at 


420 


LETTERS   OF   JOHN    KEATS 


work,  to  say  something  about  your  mother 
or  Charles  or  Henry,  but  it  is  in  vain.  I 
know  not  what  to  say.  Three  nights  since, 
George  went  with  your  mother  to  the  play. 
I  hope  she  will  soon  see  mine  acted.  I  do 
not  remember  ever  to  have  thanked  you  for 
your  tassels  to  my  Shakspeare  —  there  he 
hangs  so  ably  supported  opposite  me.  I 
thank  you  now.  It  is  a  continual  memento 
of  you.  If  you  should  have  a  boy,  do  not 
christen  him  John,  and  persuade  George 
not  to  let  his  partiality  for  me  come  across. 
'T  is  a  bad  name,  and  goes  against  a  man. 
If  my  name  had  been  Edmund  I  should 
have  been  more  fortunate. 

I  was  surprised  to  hear  of  the  state  of 
society*  at  Louisville  ;  it  seems  to  me  you 
are  just  as  ridiculous  there  as  we  are  here 
—  threepenny  parties,  halfpenny  dances. 
The  best  thing  I  have  heard  of  is  your 
shooting  ;  for  it  seems  you  follow  the  gun. 
Give  my  compliments  to  Mrs.  Audubon, 
and  tell  her  I  cannot  think  her  either  good- 
looking  or  honest.  Tell  Mr.  Audubon  he  's 
a  fool,  and  Briggs  that 't  is  well  I  was  not 
Mr.  A. 

Saturday,  January  15. 

It  is  strange  that  George  having  to  stop 
so  short  a  time  in  England,  I  should  not 
have  seen  him  for  nearly  two  days.  He 
has  been  to  Haslam's  and  does  not  encour- 
age me  to  follow  his  example.  He  had 
given  promise  to  dine  with  the  same  party 
to-morrow,  but  has  sent  an  excuse  which  I 
am  glad  of,  as  we  shall  have  a  pleasant 
party  with  us  to-morrow.  We  expect 
Charles  here  to-day.  This  is  a  beautiful 
day.  I  hope  you  will  not  quarrel  with  it 
if  I  call  it  an  American  one.  The  sun 
comes  upon  the  snow  and  makes  a  prettier 
candy  than  we  have  on  twelfth-night  cakes. 
George  is  busy  this  morning  in  making 
copies  of  my  verses.  He  is  making  one 
now  of  an  '  Ode  to  the  Nightingale,'  which 
is  like  reading  an  account  of  the  Black 
Hole  at  Calcutta  on  an  iceberg. 

You  will  say  this  is  a  matter  of  course.  I 
am  glad  it  is  —  I  mean  that  I  should  like 


your  brothers  more  the  more  I  know  them. 
I  should  spend  much  more  time  with  them 
if  our  lives  were  more  run  in  parallel;  but 
we  can  talk  but  on  one  subject  —  that  is 
you. 

The  more  I  know  of  men  the  more  I 
know  how  to  value  entire  liberality  in  any 
of  them.  Thank  God,  there  are  a  great 
many  who  will  sacrifice  their  worldly  in- 
terest for  a  friend.  I  wish  there  were 
more  who  would  sacrifice  their  passions. 
The  worst  of  men  are  those  whose  self- 
interests  are  their  passion;  the  next,  those 
whose  passions  are  their  self  -  interest. 
Upon  the  whole  I  dislike  mankind.  What- 
ever people  on  the  other  side  of  the  ques- 
tion may  advance,  they  cannot  deny  that 
they  are  always  surprised  at  hearing  of  a 
good  action,  and  never  of  a  bad  one.  I  am 
glad  you  have  something  to  like  in  America 
—  doves.  Gertrude  of  Wyoming  and  Birk- 
beck's  book  should  be  bound  up  together 
like  a  brace  of  decoy  ducks  —  one  is  almost 
as  poetical  as  the  other.  Precious  miser- 
able people  at  the  prairie.  I  have  been 
sitting  in  the  sun  whilst  I  wrote  this  till  it 's 
become  quite  oppressive  —  this  is  very  odd 
for  January.  The  vulcan  fire  is  the  true 
natural  heat  for  winter.  The  sun  has 
nothing  to  do  in  winter  but  to  give  a  little 
glooming  light  much  like  a  shade.  Our 
Irish  servant  has  piqued  me  this  morning 
by  saying  that  her  father  in  Ireland  was 
very  much  like  my  Shakspeare,  only  he 
had  more  colour  than  the  engraving.  You 
will  find  on  George's  return  that  I  have 
not  been  neglecting  your  affairs.  The  de- 
lay was  unfortunate,  not  faulty.  Perhaps 
by  this  time  you  have  received  my  three 
last  letters,  not  one  of  which  had  reached 
before  George  sailed.  I  would  give  two- 
pence to  have  been  over  the  world  as  much 
as  he  has.  I  wish  I  had  money  enough 
to  do  nothing  but  travel  about  for  years. 
Were  you  now  in  England  I  dare  say  you 
would  be  able  (setting  aside  the  pleasure 
you  would  have  in  seeing  your  mother)  to 
suck  out  more  amusement  for  society  than 


TO   GEORGIANA   AUGUSTA   KEATS 


421 


I  am  able  to  do.  To  me  it  is  all  as  dull 
here  as  Louisville  could  be.  I  am  tired  of 
the  theatres.  Almost  all  the  parties  I  may 
chance  to  fall  into  I  know  by  heart.  I 
know  the  different  styles  of  talk  in  differ- 
ent places,  —  what  subjects  will  be  started, 
how  it  will  proceed  like  an  acted  play, 
from  the  first  to  the  last  act.  If  I  go  to 
Hunt's  I  run  my  head  into  many  tunes 
heard  before,  old  puns,  and  old  music  ;  to 
Haydon's  worn-out  discourses  of  poetry  and 

painting.     The    Miss I  am  afraid  to 

speak  to,  for  fear  of  some  sickly  reiteration 
of  phrase  or  sentiment.  When  they  were 
at  the  dance  the  other  night  I  tried  man- 
fully to  sit  near  and  talk  to  them,  but  to 
no  purpose  ;  and  if  I  had  it  would  have 
been  to  no  purpose  still.  My  question  or 
observation  must  have  been  an  old  one,  and 
the  rejoinder  very  antique  indeed.  At 
Dilke's  I  fall  foul  of  politics.  'T  is  best  to 
remain  aloof  from  people  and  like  their 
good  parts  without  being  eternally  troubled 
with  the  dull  process  of  their  every-day 
lives.  When  once  a  person  has  smoked 
the  vapidness  of  the  routine  of  society  he 
must  either  have  self-interest  or  the  love 
of  some  sort  of  distinction  to  keep  him  in 
good  humour  with  it.  All  I  can  say  is 
that,  standing  at  Charing  Cross  and  look- 
ing east,  west,  north,  and  south,  I  can  see 
nothing  but  dulness.  I  hope  while  I  am 
young  to  live  retired  in  the  country. 
When  I  grow  in  years  and  have  a  right  to 
be  idle,  I  shall  enjoy  cities  more.  If  the 
American  ladies  are  worse  than  the  English 
they  must  be  very  bad.  You  say  you 
should  like  your  Emily  brought  up  here. 
You  had  better  bring  her  up  yourself. 
You  know  a  good  number  of  English  ladies ; 
what  encomium  could  you  give  of  half  a 
dozen  of  them?  The  greater  part  seems  to 
me  downright  American.  I  have  known 
more  than  one  Mrs.  Audubon.  Her  affec- 
tation of  fashion  and  politeness  cannot 
transcend  ours.  Look  at  our  Cheapside 
tradesmen's  sons  and  daughters  —  only  fit 
to  be  taken  off  by  a  plague.  I  hope  now 


soon  to  come  to  the  time  when  I  shall  never 
be  forced  to  walk  through  the  city  and  hate 
as  I  walk. 

Monday,  January  17. 

George  had  a  quick  rejoinder  to  his  let- 
ter of  excuse  to  Haslam,  so  we  had  not  his 
company  yesterday,  which  I  was  sorry  for 
as  there  was  our  old  set.  I  know  three 
witty  people  all  distinct  in  their  excellence 
—  Rice,  Reynolds,  and  Richards.  Rice  is 
the  wisest,  Reynolds  the  playfulest,  Rich- 
ards the  out-o'-the-wayest.  The  first  makes 
you  laugh  and  think,  the  second  makes  you 
laugh  and  not  think,  the  third  puzzles  your 
head.  I  admire  the  first,  I  enjoy  the  sec- 
ond, I  stare  at  the  third.  The  first  is 
claret,  the  second  ginger-beer,  the  third 
creme  de  Byrapymdrag.  The  first  is  in- 
spired by  Minerva,  the  second  by  Mercury, 
the  third  by  Harlequin  Epigram,  Esq.  The 
first  is  neat  in  his  dress,  the  second  slovenly, 
the  third  uncomfortable.  The  first  speaks 
adagio,  the  second  allegretto,  the  third  both 
together.  The  first  is  Swiftean,  the  second 
Tom-Crib-ean,  the  third  Shandean.  And 
yet  these  three  cans  are  not  three  cans  but 
one  ean. 

Charles  came  on  Saturday  but  went 
early;  he  seems  to  have  schemes  and  plans 
and  wants  to  get  off.  He  is  quite  right ; 
I  am  glad  to  see  him  employed  at  business. 
You  remember  I  wrote  you  a  story  about 
a  woman  named  Alice  being  made  young 
again,  or  some  such  stuff.  In  your  next 
letter  tell  me  whether  I  gave  it  as  my  own, 
or  whether  I  gave  it  as  a  matter  Brown 
was  employed  upon  at  the  time.  He  read 
it  over  to  George  the  other  day,  and  George 
said  he  had  heard  it  all  before.  So  Brown 
suspects  I  have  been  giving  you  his  story  as 
my  own.  I  should  like  to  set  him  right  in 
it  by  your  evidence.  George  has  not  re- 
turned from  town  ;  when  he  does  I  shall 
tax  his  memory.  We  had  a  young,  long, 
raw,  lean  Scotchman  with  us  yesterday, 
called  Thornton.  Rice,  for  fun  or  for  mis- 
take, would  persist  in  calling  him  Steven- 
son. I  know  three  people  of  no  wit  at  all, 


422 


LETTERS    OF   JOHN   KEATS 


each  distinct  in  his  excellence  —  A,  B,  and 
C.  A  is  the  foolishest,  B  the  sulkiest,  C  is 
a  negative.  A  makes  you  yawn,  B  makes 
you  hate,  as  for  C  you  never  see  him  at  all 
though  he  were  six  feet  high  —  I  bear  the 
first,  I  forbear  the  second,  I  am  not  certain 
that  the  third  is.  The  first  is  gruel,  the 
second  ditch-water,  the  third  is  spilt  —  he 
ought  to  be  wip'd  up.  A  is  inspired  by 
Jack-o'-the-clock,  B  has  been  drilled  by  a 
Russian  serjeant,  C,  they  say,  is  not  his 
mother's  true  child,  but  she  bought  him  of 
the  man  who  cries,  Young  lambs  to  sell. 

Twang-dillo-dee  —  This  you  must  know 
is  the  amen  to  nonsense.  I  know  a  good 
many  places  where  Amen  should  be 
scratched  out,  rubbed  over  with  ponce 
made  of  Momus's  little  finger  bones,  and 
in  its  place  Twang-dillo-dee  written.  This 
is  the  word  I  shall  be  tempted  to  write  at 
the  end  of  most  modern  poems.  Every 
American  book  ought  to  have  it.  It  would 
be  a  good  distinction  in  society.  My  Lords 
Wellington  and  Castlereagh,  and  Canning, 
and  many  more,  would  do  well  to  wear 
Twang-dillo-dee  on  their  backs  instead  of 
Ribbons  at  their  button-holes;  how  many 
people  would  go  sideways  along  walls  and 
quickset  hedges  to  keep  their  'Twang- 
dillo-dee  '  out  of  sight,  or  wear  large  pig- 
tails to  hide  it.  However  there  would  be 
so  many  that  the  Twang-dillo-dees  would 
keep  one  another  in  countenance  —  which 
Brown  cannot  do  for  me  —  I  have  fallen 
away  lately.  Thieves  and  murderers  would 
gain  rank  in  the  world,  for  would  any  of 
them  have  the  poorness  of  spirit  to  conde- 
scend to  be  a  Twang-dillo-dee  ?  « I  have 
robbed  many  a  dwelling  house  ;  I  have 
killed  many  a  fowl,  many  a  goose,  and 
many  a  Man  (would  such  a  gentleman  say) 
but,  thank  Heaven,  I  was  never  yet  a 
Twang-dillo-dee.'  Some  philosophers  in 
the  moon,  who  spy  at  our  globe  as  we  do 
at  theirs,  say  that  Twang-dillo-dee  is  writ- 
ten in  large  letters  on  our  globe  of  earth  ; 
they  say  the  beginning  of  the  '  T '  is  just 
on  the  spot  where  London  stands,  London 


being  built  within  the  flourish  ;  '  wan ' 
reaches  downward  and  slants  as  far  as 
Timbuctoo  in  Africa  ;  the  tail  of  the  '  g ' 
goes  slap  across  the  Atlantic  into  the  Rio 
della  Plata  ;  the  remainder  of  the  letters 
wrap  around  New  Holland,  and  the  last « e  ' 
terminates  in  land  we  have  not  yet  dis- 
covered. However,  I  must  be  silent;  these 
are  dangerous  times  to  libel  a  man  in  — 
much  more  a  world. 

Friday,  27  [for  28th  January,  1820]. 

I  wish  you  would  call  me  names:  I  de- 
serve them  so  much.  I  have  only  written 
two  sheets  for  you,  to  carry  by  George,  and 
those  I  forgot  to  bring  to  town  and  have 
therefore  to  forward  them  to  Liverpool. 
George  went  this  morning  at  6  o'clock  by 
the  Liverpool  coach.  His  being  on  his 
journey  to  you  prevents  my  regretting  his 
short  stay.  I  have  no  news  of  any  sort  to 
tell  you.  Henry  is  wife  bound  in  Camden 
Town;  there  is  no  getting  him  out.  I  am 
sorry  he  has  not  a  prettier  wife :  indeed  't  is 
a  shame:  she  is  not  half  a  wife.  I  think  I 
could  find  some  of  her  relations  in  Buffon, 
or  Capt"  Cook's  voyages  or  the  laierogue- 
glyphics  in  Moor's  Almanack,  or  upon  a 
Chinese  clock  door,  the  shepherdesses  on 
her  own  mantelpiece,  or  in  a  cruel  sampler 
in  which  she  may  find  herself  worsted,  or 
in  a  Dutch  toyshop  window,  or  one  of  the 
daughters  in  the  ark,  or  any  picture  shop 
window.  As  I  intend  to  retire  into  the 
country  where  there  will  be  no  sort  of  news, 
I  shall  not  be  able  to  write  you  very  long 
letters.  Besides  I  am  afraid  the  postage 
comes  to  too  much;  which  till  now  I  have 
not  been  aware  of. 

People  in  military  bands  are  generally 
seriously  occupied.  None  may  or  can  laugh 
at  their  work  but  the  Kettle  Drum,  Long 
Drum,  Do.  Triangle  and  Cymbals.  Think- 
ing you  might  want  a  rat-catcher  I  put 
your  mother's  old  quaker-colour'd  cat  into 
the  top  of  your  bonnet.  She 's  with  kitten, 
so  you  may  expect  to  find  a  whole  family. 
I  hope  the  family  will  not  grow  too  large 


TO   FANNY   KEATS 


423 


for  its  lodging.  I  shall  send  you  a  close 
written  sheet  on  the  first  of  next  month, 
but  for  fear  of  missing  the  Liverpool  Post 
I  must  finish  here.  God  bless  you  and 
your  little  girl. 

Your  affectionate  Brother 

JOHN  KEATS. 


149.  TO  FANNY  BRAWNE 

DEAREST  FANNY,  I  shall  send  this  the 
moment  you  return.  They  say  I  must  re- 
main confined  to  this  room  for  some  time. 
The  consciousness  that  you  love  me  will 
make  a  pleasant  prison  of  the  house  next 
to  yours.  You  must  come  and  see  me  fre- 
quently: this  evening,  without  fail  —  when 
you  must  not  mind  about  my  speaking  in  a 
low  tone  for  I  am  ordered  to  do  so  though 
I  can  speak  out. 

Yours  ever,  sweetest  love.  — 

J.  KEATS. 
turn  over 

Perhaps  your  Mother  is  not  at  home  and 
so  you  must  wait  till  she  comes.  You  must 
see  me  tonight  and  let  me  hear  you  pro- 
mise to  come  tomorrow. 

Brown  told  me  you  were  all  out.  I  have 
been  looking  for  the  stage  the  whole  after- 
noon. Had  I  known  this  I  could  not  have 
remain'd  so  silent  all  day. 

150.  TO  FANNY  KEATS 

Wentworth  Place,  Sunday  Morning. 

[February  6,  1820.] 

MY  DEAR  SISTER  —  I  should  not  have 
sent  those  Letters  without  some  notice  if 
Mr.  Brown  had  not  persuaded  me  against 
it  on  account  of  an  illness  with  which  I  was 
attack'd  on  Thursday.  After  that  I  was 
resolved  not  to  write  till  I  should  be  on  the 
mending  hand;  thank  God,  I  am  now  so. 
From  imprudently  leaving  off  my  great 
coat  in  the  thaw  I  caught  cold  which  flew 
to  my  Lungs.  Every  remedy  that  has  been 
applied  has  taken  the  desired  effect,  and  I 
have  nothing  now  to  do  but  stay  within 


doors  for  some  time.  If  I  should  be  con- 
fined long  I  shall  write  to  Mr.  Abbey  to 
ask  permission  for  you  to  visit  me.  George 
has  been  running  great  chance  of  a  similar 
attack,  but  I  hope  the  sea  air  will  be  his 
Physician  in  case  of  illness  —  the  air  out  at 
sea  is  always  more  temperate  than  on  land 
—  George  mentioned,  in  his  Letters  to  us, 
something  of  Mr.  Abbey's  regret  concern- 
ing  the  silence  kept  up  in  his  house.  It 
is  entirely  the  fault  of  his  Manner.  You 
must  be  careful  always  to  wear  warm  cloth- 
ing not  only  in  frost  but  in  a  Thaw.  —  I 
have  no  news  to  tell  you.  The  half-built 
houses  opposite  us  stand  just  as  they  were 
and  seem  dying  of  old  age  before  they  are 
brought  up.  The  grass  looks  very  dingy, 
the  Celery  is  all  gone,  and  there  is  nothing 
to  enliven  one  but  a  few  Cabbage  Stalks 
that  seem  fix'd  on  the  superannuated  List. 
Mrs.  Dilke  has  been  ill  but  is  better. 
Several  of  my  friends  have  been  to  see  me. 
Mrs.  Reynolds  was  here  this  morning  and 
the  two  Mr.  Wylie's.  Brown  has  been  very 
alert  about  me,  though  a  little  wheezy  him- 
self this  weather.  Everybody  is  ill.  Yester- 
day evening  Mr.  Davenport,  a  gentleman 
of  Hampstead,  sent  me  an  invitation  to  sup- 
per, instead  of  his  coming  to  see  us,  having 
so  bad  a  cold  he  could  not  stir  out  —  so  you 
see  'tis  the  weather  and  I  am  among  a 
thousand.  Whenever  you  have  an  inflam- 
matory fever  never  mind  about  eating. 
The  day  on  which  I  was  getting  ill  I  felt 
this  fever  to  a  great  height,  and  therefore 
almost  entirely  abstained  from  food  the 
whole  day.  I  have  no  doubt  experienced 
a  benefit  from  so  doing  —  The  Papers  I  see 
are  full  of  anecdotes  of  the  late  King  :  how 
he  nodded  to  a  Coalheaver  and  laugh'd  with 
a  Quaker  and  lik'd  boiled  Leg  of  Mutton. 
Old  Peter  Pindar  is  just  dead:  what  will 
the  old  King  and  he  say  to  each  other  ? 
Perhaps  the  King  may  confess  that  Peter 
was  in  the  right,  and  Peter  maintain  him- 
self to  have  been  wrong.  You  shall  hear 
from  me  again  on  Tuesday. 

Your  affectionate  Brother  JOHN. 


424 


LETTERS  OF  JOHN   KEATS 


151.      TO   THE   SAME 

Wentworth  Place,  Tuesday  Morn. 
[February  8,  1820.] 

MY  DEAR  FANNY— I  had  a  slight  re- 
turn of  fever  last  night,  which  terminated 
favourably,  and  I  am  now  tolerably  well, 
though  weak  from  the  small  quantity  of  food 
to  which  I  am  obliged  to  confine  myself: 
I  am  sure  a  mouse  would  starve  upon  it. 
Mrs.  Wylie  came  yesterday.  I  have  a  very 
pleasant  room  for  a  sick  person.  A  Sofa 
bed  is  made  up  for  me  in  the  front  Parlour 
which  looks  on  to  the  grass  plot  as  you  re- 
member Mrs.  Dilke's  does.  How  much 
more  comfortable  than  a  dull  room  up 
stairs,  where  one  gets  tired  of  the  pattern 
of  the  bed  curtains.  Besides  I  see  all  that 
passes  —  for  instance  now,  this  morning  — 
if  I  had  been  in  my  own  room  I  should  not 
have  seen  the  coals  brought  in.  On  Sun- 
day between  the  hours  of  twelve  and  one  I 
descried  a  Pot  boy.  I  conjectured  it  might 
be  the  one  o'Clock  beer  —  Old  women  with 
bobbins  and  red  cloaks  and  unpresuming 
bonnets  I  see  creeping  about  the  heath. 
Gipsies  after  hare  skins  and  silver  spoons. 
Then  goes  by  a  fellow  with  a  wooden  clock 
under  his  arm  that  strikes  a  hundred  and 
more.  Then  comes  the  old  French  emi- 
grant (who  has  been  very  well  to  do  in 
France)  with  his  hands  joined  behind  on 
his  hips,  and  his  face  full  of  political 
schemes.  Then  passes  Mr.  David  Lewis, 
a  very  good-natured,  good  -  looking  old 
gentleman  who  has  been  very  kind  to  Tom 
and  George  and  me.  As  for  those  fellows 
the  Brickmakers  they  are  always  passing 
to  and  fro.  1  musVt  forget  the  two  old 
maiden  Ladies  in  Well  Walk  who  have  a 
Lap  dog  between  them  that  they  are  very 
anxious  about.  It  is  a  corpulent  Little  beast 
whom  it  is  necessary  to  coax  along  with 
an  ivory- tipp'd  cane.  Carlo  our  Neighbour 
Mrs.  Brawne's  dog  and  it  meet  sometimes. 
Lappy  thinks  Carlo  a  devil  of  a  fellow  and 
so  do  his  Mistresses.  Well  they  may  — he 
would  sweep  'em  all  down  at  a  run;  all  for 


the  Joke  of  it.  I  shall  desire  him  to  pe- 
ruse the  fable  of  the  Boys  and  the  frogs: 
though  he  prefers  the  tongues  and  the 
Bones.  You  shall  hear  from  me  again  the 
day  after  to-morrow. 

Your  affectionate  Brother 

JOHN  KEATS. 

152.    TO  FANNY  BKAWNE 

MY  DEAREST  GIRL,  —  If  illness  makes 
such  an  agreeable  variety  in  the  manner 
of  your  eyes  I  should  wish  you  sometimes  to 
be  ill.  I  wish  I  had  read  your  note  before 
you  went  last  night  that  I  might  have 
assured  you  how  far  I  was  from  suspect- 
ing any  coldness.  You  had  a  just  right 
to  be  a  little  silent  to  one  who  speaks  so 
plainly  to  you.  You  must  believe  —  you 
shall,  you  will— that  I  can  do  nothing, 
say  nothing,  think  nothing  of  you  but  what 
has  its  spring  in  the  Love  which  has  so 
long  been  my  pleasure  and  torment.  On 
the  night  I  was  taken  ill  —  when  so  vio- 
lent a  rush  of  blood  came  to  my  Lungs 
that  I  felt  nearly  suffocated  —  I  assure 
you  I  felt  it  possible  I  might  not  survive, 
and  at  that  moment  thought  of  nothing 
but  you.  When  I  said  to  Brown  'this 
is  unfortunate  '  I  thought  of  you.  'Tis 
true  that  since  the  first  two  or  three  days 
other  subjects  have  entered  my  head.  I 
shall  be  looking  forward  to  Health  and  the 
Spring  and  a  regular  routine  of  our  old 
Walks. 

Your  affectionate         J.  K. 

153.      TO  THE  SAME 

My  sweet  love,  I  shall  wait  patiently  till 
tomorrow  before  I  see  you,  and  in  the 
mean  time,  if  there  is  any  need  of  such  a 
thing,  assure  you  by  your  Beauty,  that 
whenever  I  have  at  any  time  written  on  a 
certain  unpleasant  subject,  it  has  been  with 
your  welfare  impress'd  upon  my  mind. 
How  hurt  I  should  have  been  had  you  ever 
acceded  to  what  is,  notwithstanding,  very 


TO   FANNY   BRAWNE 


425 


reasonable  !  How  much  the  more  do  I 
love  you  from  the  general  result !  In  my 
present  state  of  Health  I  feel  too  much 
separated  from  you  and  could  almost  speak 
to  you  in  the  words  of  Lorenzo's  Ghost  to 
Isabella 

'  Your  Beauty  grows  upon  me  and  I  feel 
A  greater  love  through  all  my  essence  steal.' 

My  greatest  torment  since  I  have  known 
you  has  been  the  fear  of  you  being  a  little 
inclined  to  the  Cressid  ;  but  that  suspicion 
I  dismiss  utterly  and  remain  happy  in  the 
surety  of  your  Love,  which  I  assure  you  is 
as  much  a  wonder  to  me  as  a  delight.  Send 
me  the  words  *  Good  night '  to  put  under 
my  pillow. 

Dearest  Fanny, 
•     Your  affectionate  J.  K. 

154.   TO  FANNY  KEATS 

Wentworth  Place  [February  11,  1820]. 

MY  DEAR  FANNY  —  I  am  much  the 
same  as  when  I  last  wrote.  I  hope  a  little 
more  verging  towards  improvement.  Yes- 
terday morning  being  very  fine,  I  took  a 
walk  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  in  the  gar- 
den and  was  very  much  refresh'd  by  it. 
You  must  consider  no  news,  good  news  — 
if  you  do  not  hear  from  me  the  day  after 
to-morrow. 

Your  affectionate  Brother  JOHN. 

155.      TO  THE  SAME 

Wentworth  Place,  Monday  Morn. 

[February  14, 1820.] 

MY  DEAR  FANNY  —  I  am  improving  but 
very  gradually  and  suspect  it  will  be  a  long 
while  before  I  shall  be  able  to  walk  six 
miles  —  The  Sun  appears  half  inclined  to 
shine  ;  if  he  obliges  us  I  shall  take  a  turn 
in  the  garden  this  morning.  No  one  from 
Town  has  visited  me  since  my  last.  I  have 
had  so  many  presents  of  jam  and  jellies 
that  they  would  reach  side  by  side  the 
length  of  the  sideboard.  I  hope  I  shall  be 


well  before  it  is  all  consumed.  I  am  vexed 
that  Mr.  Abbey  will  not  allow  you  pocket 
money  sufficient.  He  has  not  behaved  well 
—  By  detaining  money  from  me  and  George 
when  we  most  wanted  it  he  has  increased 
our  expenses.  In  consequence  of  such  de- 
lay George  was  obliged  to  take  his  voyage 
to  England  which  will  be  £150  out  of  his 
pocket.  I  enclose  you  a  note  —  You  shall 
hear  from  me  again  the  day  after  to-morrow. 
Your  affectionate  Brother  JOHN. 

156.      TO  FANNY  BRAWNE 

MY  DEAREST  GIRL  —  According  to  all 
appearances  I  am  to  be  separated  from  you 
as  much  as  possible.  How  I  shall  be  able 
to  bear  it,  or  whether  it  will  not  be  worse 
than  your  presence  now  and  then,  I  cannot 
tell.  I  must  be  patient,  and  in  the  mean 
time  you  must  think  of  it  as  little  as  possi- 
ble. Let  me  not  longer  detain  you  from 
going  to  Town  —  there  may  be  no  end  to 
this  imprisoning  of  you.  Perhaps  you  had 
better  not  come  before  tomorrow  even- 
ing: send  me  however  without  fail  a  good 
night. 

You  know  our  situation what  hope 

is  there  if  I  should  be  recovered  ever  so 
soon  —  my  very  health  will  not  suffer  me 
to  make  any  great  exertion.  I  am  recom- 
mended not  even  to  read  poetry,  much  less 
write  it.  I  wish  I  had  even  a  little  hope. 
I  cannot  say  forget  me  —  but  I  would  men- 
tion that  there  are  impossibilities  in  the 
world.  No  more  of  this.  I  am  not  strong 
enough  to  be  weaned  —  take  no  notice  of  it 
in  your  good  night. 

Happen  what  may  I  shall  ever  be  my 
dearest  Love 

Your  affectionate  J.  K. 

157.      TO   THE  SAME 

MY  DEAREST  GIRL  —  how  could  it  ever 
have  been  my  wish  to  forget  you  ?  how 
could  I  have  said  such  a  thing  ?  The  ut- 
most stretch  my  mind  has  been  capable  of 


426 


LETTERS   OF   JOHN   KEATS 


was  to  endeavour  to  forget  you  for  your 
own  sake  seeing  what  a  chance  there  was 
of  my  remaining  in  a  precarious  state  of 
health.  I  would  have  borne  it  as  I  would 
bear  death  if  fate  was  in  that  humour  :  but 
I  should  as  soon  think  of  choosing  to  die  as 
to  part  from  you.  Believe  too  my  Love 
that  our  friends  think  and  speak  for  the 
best,  and  if  their  best  is  not  our  best  it  is 
not  their  fault.  When  I  am  better  I  will 
speak  with  you  at  large  on  these  subjects, 
if  there  is  any  occasion  —  I  think  there  is 
none.  I  am  rather  nervous  today  perhaps 
from  being  a  little  recovered  and  suffering 
my  mind  to  take  little  excursions  beyond 
the  doors  and  windows.  I  take  it  for  a 
good  sign,  but  as  it  must  not  be  encouraged 
you  had  better  delay  seeing  me  till  to- 
morrow. Do  not  take  the  trouble  of  writ- 
ing much  :  merely  send  me  my  good  night. 
Remember  me  to  your  Mother  and  Mar- 
garet. 

Your  affectionate  J.  K. 

158.      TO  THE  SAME 

MY  DEAREST  FANNY  —  Then  all  we 
have  to  do  is  to  be  patient.  Whatever 
violence  I  may  sometimes  do  myself  by 
hinting  at  what  would  appear  to  any  one 
but  ourselves  a  matter  of  necessity,  I  do 
not  think  I  could  bear  any  approach  of  a 
thought  of  losing  you.  I  slept  well  last 
night,  but  cannot  say  that  I  improve  very 
fast.  I  shall  expect  you  tomorrow,  for  it 
is  certainly  better  that  I  should  see  you 
seldom.  Let  me  have  your  good  night. 
Your  affectionate  J.  K. 

159.      TO  JAMES  BICE 

Wentworth  Place,  February  16,  1820. 
MY  DEAR  RICE  —  I  have  not  been  well 
enough  to  make  any  tolerable  rejoinder  to 
your  kind  letter.  I  will,  as  you  advise,  be 
very  chary  of  my  health  and  spirits.  I  ana 
sorry  to  hear  of  your  relapse  and  hypo- 
chondriac symptoms  attending  it.  Let  us 


hope  for  the  best,  as  you  say.  I  shall  fol- 
low your  example  in  looking  to  the  future 
good  rather  than  brooding  upon  the  present 
ill.  I  have  not  been  so  worn  with  length- 
ened illnesses  as  you  have,  therefore  can- 
not answer  you  on  your  own  ground  with 
respect  to  those  haunting  and  deformed 
thoughts  and  feelings  you  speak  of.  When 
I  have  been,  or  supposed  myself  in  health, 
I  have  had  my  share  of  them,  especially 
within  the  last  year.  I  may  say,  that  for 
six  months  before  I  was  taken  ill  I  had 
not  passed  a  tranquil  day.  Either  that 
gloom  overspread  me,  or  I  was  suffering 
under  some  passionate  feeling,  or  if  I 
turned  to  versify,  that  acerbated  the  poison 
of  either  sensation.  The  beauties  of  nature 
had  lost  their  power  over  me.  How  aston- 
ishingly (here  I  must  premise  that  illness, 
as  far  as  I  can  judge  in  so  short  a  time,  has 
relieved  my  mind  of  a  load  of  deceptive 
thoughts  and  images,  and  makes  me  per- 
ceive things  in  a  truer  light),  —  how  aston- 
ishingly does  the  chance  of  leaving  the 
world  impress  a  sense  of  its  natural  beau- 
ties upon  us  !  Like  poor  Falstaff,  though  I 
do  not  '  babble,'  I  think  of  green  fields  ;  I 
muse  with  the  greatest  affection  on  every 
flower  I  have  known  from  my  infancy  — 
their  shapes  and  colours  are  as  new  to  me 
as  if  I  had  just  created  them  with  a  super- 
human fancy.  It  is  because  they  are  con- 
nected with  the  most  thoughtless  and  the 
happiest  moments  of  our  lives.  I  have 
seen  foreign  flowers  in  hothouses,  of  the 
most  beautiful  nature,  but  I  do  not  care  a 
straw  for  them.  The  simple  flowers  of  our 
Spring  are  what  I  want  to  see  again. 

Brown  has  left  the  inventive  and  taken 
to  the  imitative  art.  He  is  doing  his  forte, 
which  is  copying  Hogarth's  heads.  He  has 
just  made  a  purchase  of  the  Methodist 
Meeting  picture,  which  gave  me  a  horrid 
dream  a  few  nights  ago.  I  hope  I  shall  sit 
under  the  trees  with  you  again  in  some 
such  place  as  the  Isle  of  Wight.  I  do  not 
mind  a  game  of  cards  in  a  saw-pit  or  wag- 
gon, but  if  ever  you  catch  me  on  a  stage- 


TO   FANNY   BRAWNE 


427 


coach  in  the  winter  full  against  the  wind, 
bring  me  down  with  a  brace  of  bullets,  and 
I  promise  not  to  'peach.  Remember  me  to 
Reynolds,  and  say  how  much  I  should  like 
to  hear  from  him  ;  that  Brown  returned 
immediately  after  he  went  on  Sunday,  and 
that  I  was  vexed  at  forgetting  to^sk  him 
to  lunch  ;  for  as  he  went  towards  the  gate, 
I  saw  he  was  fatigued  and  hungry. 

I  am,  my  dear  Rice,  ever  most  sincerely 
yours 

JOHN  KEATS. 

I  have  broken  this  open  to  let  you  know 
I  was  surprised  at  seeing  it  on  the  table 
this  morning,  thinking  it  had  gone  long 
ago. 


160.      TO  FANNY  KEATS 

[February  19,  1820.] 

MY  DEAR  FANNY  —  Being  confined  al- 
most entirely  to  vegetable  food  and  the 
weather  being  at  the  same  time  so  much 
against  me.  I  cannot  say  I  have  much  im- 
proved since  I  wrote  last.  The  Doctor 
tells  me  there  are  no  dangerous  Symptoms 
about  me,  and  quietness  of  mind  and  fine 
weather  will  restore  me.  Mind  my  advice 
to  be  very  careful  to  wear  warm  cloathing 
in  a  thaw.  I  will  write  again  on  Tuesday 
when  I  hope  to  send  you  good  news. 
Your  affectionate  Brother  JOHN . 


161.     TO  FANNY   BRAWNE 

MY  DEAREST  FANNY  —  I  read  your 
note  in  bed  last  night,  and  that  might  be 
the  reason  of  my  sleeping  so  much  better. 
I  think  Mr.  Brown  is  right  in  supposing 
you  may  stop  too  long  with  me,  so  very 
nervous  as  I  am.  Send  me  every  evening 
a  written  Good  night.  If  you  come  for  a 
few  minutes  about  six  it  may  be  the  best 
time.  Should  you  ever  fancy  me  too  low- 
spirited  I  must  warn  you  to  ascribe  it  to 
the  medicine  I  am  at  present  taking  which 
is  of  a  nerve-shaking  nature.  I  shall  im- 


pute any  depression  I  may  experience  to 
this  cause.  I  have  been  writing  with  a 
vile  old  pen  the  whole  week,  which  is  ex- 
cessively uugallant.  The  fault  is  in  the 
Quill :  I  have  mended  it  and  still  it  is  very 
much  inclin'd  to  make  blind  es.  However 
these  last  lines  are  in  a  much  better  style 
of  penmanship,  tho'  a  little  disfigured  by 
the  smear  of  black  currant  jelly  ;  which  has 
made  a  little  mark  on  one  of  the  pages  of 
Brown's  Ben  Jonson,  the  very  best  book  he 
has.  I  have  lick'd  it  but  it  remains  very 
purple.  I  did  not  know  whether  to  say 
purple  or  blue  so  in  the  mixture  of  the 
thought  wrote  purplue  which  may  be  an 
excellent  name  for  a  colour  made  up  of 
those  two,  and  would  suit  well  to  start  next 
spring.  Be  very  careful  of  open  doors  and 
windows  and  going  without  your  duffle 
grey.  God  bless  you  Love  ! 

J.  KEATS. 

P.  S.  I  am  sitting  in  the  back  room. 
Remember  me  to  your  Mother. 

162.      TO  THE  SAME 

MY  DEAR  FANNY,  —  Do  not  let  your 
mother  suppose  that  you  hurt  me  by  writ- 
ing at  night.  For  some  reason  or  other 
your  last  night's  note  was  not  so  treasure- 
able  as  former  ones.  I  would  fain  that  you 
call  me  Love  still.  To  see  you  happy  and 
in  high  spirits  is  a  great  consolation  to  me 
—  still  let  me  believe  that  you  are  not  half 
so  happy  as  my  restoration  would  make 
you.  I  am  nervous,  I  own,  and  may  think 
myself  worse  than  I  really  am  ;  if  so  you 
must  indulge  me,  and  pamper  with  that 
sort  of  tenderness  you  have  manifested  to- 
wards me  in  different  Letters.  My  sweet 
creature  when  I  look  back  upon  the  pains 
and  torments  I  have  suffer'd  for  you  from 
the  day  I  left  you  to  go  to  the  Isle  of 
Wight ;  the  ecstasies  in  which  I  have  pass'd 
some  days  and  the  miseries  in  their  turn,  I 
wonder  the  more  at  the  Beauty  which  has 
kept  up  the  spell  so  fervently.  When  I 
send  this  round  I  shall  be  in  the  front  par- 


428 


LETTERS   OF   JOHN    KEATS 


lour  watching  to  see  you  show  yourself  for 
a  minute  in  the  garden.  How  illness 
stands  as  a  barrier  betwixt  me  and  you  ! 
Even  if  I  was  well 1  must  make  my- 
self as  good  a  Philosopher  as  possible. 
Now  I  have  had  opportunities  of  passing 
nights  anxious  and  awake  I  have  found 
other  thoughts  intrude  upon  me.  'If  I 
should  die,'  said  I  to  myself,  *  I  have  left 
no  immortal  work  behind  me  —  nothing  to 
make  my  friends  proud  of  my  memory  — 
but  I  have  lov'd  the  principle  of  beauty  in 
all  things,  and  if  I  had  had  time  I  would 
have  made  myself  remember'd.'  Thoughts 
like  these  came  very  feebly  whilst  I  was  in 
health  and  every  pulse  beat  for  you  —  now 
you  divide  with  this  (may  /  say  it  ?)  '  last 
infirmity  of  noble  minds  '  all  my  reflection. 
God  bless  you,  Love.  J.  KEATS. 

163.      TO  THE  SAME 

MY  DEAREST  GIRL,  —  You  spoke  of 
having  been  unwell  in  your  last  note  :  have 
you  recover'd?  That  note  has  been  a 
great  delight  to  me.  I  am  stronger  than 
I  was  :  the  Doctors  say  there  is  very  little 
the  matter  with  me,  but  I  cannot  believe 
them  till  the  weight  and  tightness  of  my 
Chest  is  mitigated.  I  will  not  indulge  or 
pain  myself  by  complaining  of  my  long 
separation  from  you.  God  alone  knows 
whether  I  am  destined  to  taste  of  happi- 
ness with  you  :  at  all  events  I  myself  know 
thus  much,  that  I  consider  it  no  mean  Hap- 
piness to  have  lov'd  you  thus  far  —  if  it  is 
to  be  no  further  I  shall  not  be  unthankful 
—  if  I  am  to  recover,  the  day  of  my  re- 
covery shall  see  me  by  your  side  from 
which  nothing  shall  separate  me.  If  well 
you  are  the  only  medicine  that  can  keep 
me  so.  Perhaps,  aye  surely,  I  am  writing 
in  too  depress'd  a  state  of  mind  —  ask  your 
Mother  to  come  and  see  me  —  she  will 
bring  you  a  better  account  than  mine. 

Ever  your  affectionate  JOHN  KEATS. 


164.      TO  JOHN  HAMILTON  REYNOLDS 

t 

[February  23  or  25, 1820.] 
MY  DEAR  REYNOLDS  —  I  have  been  im- 
proving since  you  saw  me  :  my  nights  are 
better  which  I  think  is  a  very  encour- 
aging thing.  You  mention  your  cold  in 
rather  too  slighting  a  manner  —  if  you 
travel  outside  have  some  flannel  against 
the  wind  —  which  I  hope  will  not  keep  on 
at  this  rate  when  you  are  in  the  Packet 
boat.  Should  it  rain  do  not  stop  upon 
deck  though  the  Passengers  should  vomit 
themselves  inside  out.  Keep  under  Hatches 
from  all  sort  of  wet. 

I  am  pretty  well  provided  with  Books  at 
present,  when  you  return  I  may  give  you  a 
commission  or  two.  Mr.  B[arry]  C  [ornwall] 
has  sent  me  not  only  his  Sicilian  Story  but 
yesterday  his  Dramatic  Scenes  —  this  is 
very  polite,  and  I  shall  do  what  I  can  to 
make  him  sensible  I  think  so.  I  confess 
they  teaze  me  —  they  are  composed  of 
amiability,  the  Seasons,  the  Leaves,  the 
Moons,  etc.,  upon  which  he  rings  (accord- 
ing to  Hunt's  expression),  triple  bob  ma- 
jors. However  that  is  nothing  —  I  think 
he  likes  poetry  for  its  own  sake,  not  his.  I 
hope  I  shall  soon  be  well  enough  to  proceed 
with  my  faeries  and  set  you  about  the  notes 
on  Sundays  and  Stray-days.  If  I  had  been 
well  enough  I  should  have  liked  to  cross 
the  water  with  you.  Brown  wishes  you  a 
pleasant  voyage  —  Have  fish  for  dinner  at 
the  sea  ports,  and  don't  forget  a  bottle  of 
Claret.  You  will  not  meet  with  so  much  to 
hate  at  Brussels  as  at  Paris.  Remember  me 
to  all  my  friends.  If  I  were  well  enough  I 
would  paraphrase  an  ode  of  Horace's  for 
you,  on  your  embarking  in  the  seventy 
years  ago  style.  The  Packet  will  bear  a 
comparison  with  a  Roman  galley  at  any 
rate. 

Ever  yours  affectionately 

J.  KEATS. 


TO   FANNY   BRAWNE 


429 


165.      TO  FANNY  BRAWNE 

MY  DEAREST  GIRL  —  Indeed  I  will  not 
deceive  you  with  respect  to  my  Health. 
This  is  the  fact  as  far  as  I  know.  I  have 
been  confined  three  weeks  and  am  not  yet 
well  —  this  proves  that  there  is  something 
wrong  about  me  which  my  constitution  will 
either  conquer  or  give  way  to.  Let  us 
hope  for  the  best.  Do  you  hear  the  Thrush 
singing  over  the  field  ?  I  think  it  is  a 
sign  of  mild  weather  —  so  much  the  bet- 
ter for  me.  Like  all  Sinners  now  I  am  ill 
I  philosophize,  aye  out  of  my  attachment 
to  every  thing,  Trees,  flowers,  Thrushes, 
Spring,  Summer,  Claret,  &c.  &c.  —  aye 
every  thing  but  you.  —  My  sister  would  be 
glad  of  my  company  a  little  longer.  That 
Thrush  is  a  fine  fellow.  I  hope  he  was 
fortunate  in  his  choice  this  year.  Do  not 
send  any  more  of  my  Books  home.  I  have 
a  great  pleasure  in  the  thought  of  you  look- 
ing on  them. 

Ever  yours  my  sweet  Fanny         J.  K. 

166.      TO  FANNY  KEATS 

Wentworth  Place,  Thursday. 
[February  24, 1820.] 

MY  DEAR  FANNY  —  I  am  sorry  to  hear 
you  have  been  so  unwell :  now  you  are  bet- 
ter, keep  so.  Remember  to  be  very  care- 
ful of  your  clothing  —  this  climate  requires 
the  utmost  care.  There  has  been  very 
little  alteration  in  me  lately.  I  am  much 
the  same  as  when  I  wrote  last.  When  I 
am  well  enough  to  return  to  my  old  diet  I 
shall  get  stronger.  If  my  recovery  should 
be  delay'd  long  I  will  ask  Mr.  Abbey  to  let 
you  visit  me  —  keep  up  your  Spirits  as  well 
as  you  can.  You  shall  hear  soon  again 
from  me. 

Your  affectionate  Brother    JOHN 

167.      TO  FANNY   BRAWNE 

MY  DEAREST  FANNY  —  I  had  a  better 
night  last  night  than  I  have  had  since  my 


attack,  and  this  morning  I  am  the  same  as 
when  you  saw  me.  I  have  been  turning 
over  two  volumes  of  Letters  written  be- 
tween Rousseau  and  two  Ladies  in  the 
perplexed  strain  of  mingled  finesse  and 
sentiment  in  which  the  Ladies  and  gentle- 
men of  those  days  were  so  clever,  and 
which  is  still  prevalent  among  Ladies 
of  this  Country  who  live  in  a  state  of  rea- 
soning romance.  The  likeness  however 
only  extends  to  the  mannerism,  not  to  the 
dexterity.  What  would  Rousseau  have 
said  at  seeing  our  little  correspondence  ! 
What  would  his  Ladies  have  said  !  I 
don't  care  much  —  I  would  sooner  have 
Shakspeare's  opinion  about  the  matter. 
The  common  gossiping  of  washerwomen 
must  be  less  disgusting  than  the  continual 
and  eternal  fence  and  attack  of  Rousseau 
and  these  sublime  Petticoats.  One  calls 
herself  Clara  and  her  friend  Julia,  two  of 
Rosseau's  heroines  —  they  all  the  same 
time  christen  poor  Jean  Jacques  St.  Preux 
—  who  is  the  pure  cavalier  of  his  famous 
novel.  Thank  God  I  am  born  in  England 
with  our  own  great  Men  before  my  eyes. 
Thank  God  that  you  are  fair  and  can  love 
me  without  being  Letter-written  and  senti- 
mentaliz'd  into  it.  —  Mr.  Barry  Cornwall 
has  sent  me  another  Book,  his  first,  with  a 
polite  note.  I  must  do  what  I  can  to  make 
him  sensible  of  the  esteem  I  have  for  his 
kindness.  If  this  north  east  would  take  a 
turn  it  would  be  so  much  the  better  for 
me.  Good  bye,  my  love,  my  dear  love, 
my  beauty  — 

love  me  for  ever  J.  K. 

168.      TO  THE   SAME 

MY  DEAREST  GIRL  —  I  continue  much 
the  same  as  usual,  I  think  a  little  better. 
My  spirits  are  better  also,  and  consequently 
I  am  more  resign'd  to  my  confinement.  I 
dare  not  think  of  you  much  or  write  much 
to  you.  Remember  me  to  all. 

Ever  your  affectionate 

JOHN  KEATS, 


430 


LETTERS   OF  JOHN   KEATS 


169.      TO   THE   SAME 

MY  DEAR  FANNY  —  I  think  you  had  bet- 
ter not  make  any  long  stay  with  me  when 
Mr.  Brown  is  at  home.  Whenever  he  goes 
out  you  may  bring  your  work.  You  will 
have  a  pleasant  walk  today.  I  shall  see  you 
pass.  I  shall  follow  you  with  my  eyes  over 
the  Heath.  Will  you  come  towards  even- 
ing instead  of  before  dinner  ?  When  you 
are  gone,  'tis  past  —  if  you  do  not  come 
till  the  evening  I  have  something  to  look 
forward  to  all  day.  Come  round  to  my 
window  for  a  moment  when  you  have  read 
this.  Thank  your  Mother,  for  the  pre- 
serves, for  me.  The  raspberry  will  be  too 
sweet  not  having  any  acid  ;  therefore  as 
you  are  so  good  a  girl  I  shall  make  you  a 
present  of  it.  Good  bye 

My  sweet  Love  !  J.  KEATS. 


170.      TO  THE  SAME 

MY  DEAREST  FANNY — The  power  of 
your  benediction  is  of  not  so  weak  a  nature 
as  to  pass  from  the  ring  in  four  and  twenty 
hours  —  it  is  like  a  sacred  Chalice  once  con- 
secrated and  ever  consecrate.  I  shall  kiss 
your  name  and  mine  where  your  Lips  have 
been  —  Lips  !  why  should  a  poor  prisoner 
as  I  am  talk  about  such  things  ?  Thank 
God,  though  I  hold  them  the  dearest  plea- 
sures in  the  universe,  I  have  a  consolation 
independent  of  them  in  the  certainty  of 
your  affection.  I  could  write  a  song  in 
the  style  of  Tom  Moore's  Pathetic  about 
Memory  if  that  would  be  any  relief  to  me. 
No — 'twould  not.  I  will  be  as  obstinate 
as  a  Robin,  I  will  not  sing  in  a  cage. 
Health  is  my  expected  heaven  and  you  are 

the  Houri this  word  I  believe  is  both 

singular  and  plural  —  if  only  plural,  never 
mind — you  are  a  thousand  of  them. 

Ever  yours  affectionately  my  dearest, 

J.  K. 

You  had  better  not  come  to  day. 


171.      TO  THE  SAME 

MY  DEAREST  LOVE  —  You  must  not  stop 
so  long  in  the  cold  —  I  have  been  suspect- 
ing that  window  to  be  open.  —  Your  note 
half-cured  me.  When  I  want  some  more 
oranges  I  will  tell  you  —  these  are  just 
k  propos.  I  am  kept  from  food  so  feel 
rather  weak  —  otherwise  very  well.  Pray 
do  not  stop  so  long  upstairs  —  it  makes  me 
uneasy  —  come  every  now  and  then  and 
stop  a  half  minute.  Remember  me  to 
Your  Mother. 

Your  ever  affectionate  J.  KEATS. 


172.      TO  THE  SAME 

SWEETEST  FANNY  —  You  fear,  some- 
times, I  do  not  love  you  so  much  as  you 
wish  ?  My  dear  Girl  I  love  you  ever  and 
ever  and  without  reserve.  The  more  I 
have  known  the  more  have  I  lov'd.  In 
every  way  —  even  my  jealousies  have  been 
agonies  of  Love,  in  the  hottest  fit  I  ever 
had  I  would  have  died  for  you.  I  have 
vex'd  you  too  much.  But  for  Love  !  Can 
I  help  it  ?  You  are  always  new.  The  last 
of  your  kisses  was  ever  the  sweetest ;  the 
last  smile  the  brightest  ;  the  last  move- 
ment the  gracefullest.  When  you  pass'd 
my  window  home  yesterday,  I  was  fill'd 
with  as  much  admiration  as  if  I  had  then 
seen  you  for  the  first  time.  You  uttered  a 
half  complaint  once  that  I  only  lov'd  your 
beauty.  Have  I  nothing  else  then  to  love 
in  you  but  that  ?  Do  not  I  see  a  heart 
naturally  furnish'd  with  wings  imprison  it- 
self with  me  ?  No  ill  prospect  has  been  able 
to  turn  your  thoughts  a  moment  from  me. 
This  perhaps  should  be  as  much  a  subject 
of  sorrow  as  joy  —  but  I  will  not  talk  of 
that.  Even  if  you  did  not  love  me  I  could 
not  help  an  entire  devotion  to  you  :  how 
much  more  deeply  then  must  I  feel  for 
you  knowing  you  love  me.  My  Mind  has 
been  the  most  discontented  and  restless  one 


TO   CHARLES   WENTWORTH   DILKE 


that  ever  was  put  into  a  body  too  small  for 
it.  I  never  felt  my  Mind  repose  upon  any- 
thing with  complete  and  undistracted  en- 
joyment —  upon  no  person  but  you.  When 
you  are  in  the  room  my  thoughts  never  fly 
out  of  window:  you  always  concentrate 
my  whole  senses.  The  anxiety  shown  about 
our  Loves  in  your  last  note  is  an  immense 
pleasure  to  me :  however  you  must  not 
suffer  such  speculations  to  molest  you  any 
more  :  nor  will  I  any  more  believe  you  can 
have  the  least  pique  against  me.  Brown  is 
gone  out  —  but  here  is  Mrs.  Wiley  —  when 
she  is  gone  I  shall  be  awake  for  you.  — 
Remembrances  to  your  Mother. 

Your  affectionate  J.  KEATS. 


173.      TO  CHARLES  WENTWORTH  DILKE 

[Hampstead,  March  4, 1820.] 

MY  DEAR  DILKE  —  Since  I  saw  you  I 
have  been  gradually,  too  gradually  perhaps, 
improving  ;  and  though  under  an  interdict 
with  respect  to  animal  food,  living  upon 
pseudo  victuals,  Brown  says  I  have  pick'd 
up  a  little  flesh  lately.  If  I  can  keep  off 
inflammation  for  the  next  six  weeks  I 
trust  I  shall  do  very  well.  You  certainly 
should  have  been  at  Martin's  dinner,  for 
making  an  index  is  surely  as  dull  work 
as  engraving.  Have  you  heard  that  the 
Bookseller  is  going  to  tie  himself  to  the 
manger  eat  or  not  as  he  pleases.  He 
says  Rice  shall  have  his  foot  on  the 
fender  notwithstanding.  Reynolds  is  go- 
ing to  sail  on  the  salt  seas.  Brown  has 
been  mightily  progressing  with  his  Ho- 
garth. A  damn'd  melancholy  picture  it 
is,  and  during  the  first  week  of  my  illness 
it  gave  me  a  psalm-singing  nightmare,  that 
made  me  almost  faint  away  in  my  sleep.  I 
know  I  am  better,  for  I  can  bear  the  Pic- 
ture. I  have  experienced  a  specimen  of 
great  politeness  from  Mr.  Barry  Cornwall. 
He  has  sent  me  his  books.  Some  time  ago 
he  had  given  his  first  publish'd  book  to 


Hunt  for  me  ;  Hunt  forgot  to  give  it  and 
Barry  Cornwall  thinking  I  had  received  it 
must  have  thought  me  a  very  neglectful 
fellow.  Notwithstanding  he  sent  me  his 
|  second  book  and  on  my  explaining  that  1 
had  not  received  his  first  he  sent  me  that 
also.  I  am  sorry  to  see  by  Mrs.  D.'s  note 
that  she  has  been  so  unwell  with  the  spasms. 
Does  she  continue  the  Medicines  that  bene- 
fited her  so  much  ?  I  am  afraid  not. 
Remember  me  to  her,  and  say  I  shall  not 
expect  her  at  Hampstead  next  week  unless 
the  Weather  changes  for  the  warmer.  It 
is  better  to  run  no  chance  of  a  supernumer- 
ary cold  in  March.  As  for  you,  you  must 
come.  You  must  improve  in  your  penman- 
ship ;  your  writing  is  like  the  speaking 
of  a  child  of  three  years  old,  very  under- 
standable to  its  father  but  to  no  one  else. 
The  worst  is  it  looks  well  —  no,  that  is  not 
the  worst  —  the  worst  is,  it  is  worse  than 
Bailey's.  Bailey's  looks  illegible  and  may 
perchance  be  read  ;  yours  looks  very  legi- 
ble and  may  perchance  not  be  read.  I 
would  endeavour  to  give  you  a  facsim- 
ile of  your  word  Thistlewood  if  I  were 
not  minded  on  the  instant  that  Lord  Ches- 
terfield has  done  some  such  thing  to  his  son. 
Now  I  would  not  bathe  in  the  same  River 
with  Lord  C.  though  I  had  the  upper  hand 
of  the  stream.  I  am  grieved  that  in  writ- 
ing and  speaking  it  is  necessary  to  make 
use  of  the  same  particles  as  he  did.  Cob- 
bett  is  expected  to  come  in.  O  that  I  had 
two  double  plumpers  for  him.  The  minis- 
try are  not  so  inimical  to  him  but  it  would 
like  to  put  him  out  of  Coventry.  Casting 
my  eye  on  the  other  side  I  see  a  long  word 
written  in  a  most  vile  manner,  unbecoming 
a  Critic.  You  must  recollect  I  have  served 
no  apprenticeship  to  old  plays.  If  the  only 
copies  of  the  Greek  and  Latin  authors  had 
been  made  by  you,  Bailey  and  Hay  don  they 
were  as  good  as  lost.  It  has  been  said  that 
the  Character  of  a  Man  may  be  known  by 
his  handwriting  —  if  the  Character  of  the 
age  may  be  known  by  the  average  good- 


432 


LETTERS   OF   JOHN   KEATS 


ness  of  said,  what  a  slovenly  age  we  live  in. 
Look  at  Queen  Elizabeth's  Latin  exercises 
and  blush.  Look  at  Milton's  hand.  I 
can't  say  a  word  for  Shakspeare's. 

Your  sincere  friend          JOHN  KEATS. 


174.     TO   FANNY    BRAWNE 

MY  DEAR  FANNY  —  I  am  much  better 
this  morning  than  I  was  a  week  ago  :  in- 
deed I  improve  a  little  every  day.  I  rely 
upon  taking  a  walk  with  you  upon  the  first 
of  May  :  in  the  mean  time  undergoing  a 
babylonish  captivity  I  shall  not  be  jew 
enough  to  hang  up  my  harp  upon  a  willow, 
but  rather  endeavour  to  clear  up  my  ar- 
rears in  versifying,  and  with  returning 
health  begin  upon  something  new:  pursu- 
ant to  which  resolution  it  will  be  necessary 
to  have  my  or  rather  Taylor's  manuscript, 
which  you,  if  you  please,  will  send  by  my 
Messenger  either  today  or  tomorrow.  Is 
Mr.  D.  with  you  today?  You  appeared 
very  much  fatigued  last  night :  you  must 
look  a  little  brighter  this  morning.  I  shall 
not  suffer  my  little  girl  ever  to  be  obscured 
like  glass  breath'd  upon,  but  always  bright 
as  it  is  her  nature  to.  Feeding  upon  sham 
victuals  and  sitting  by  the  fire  will  com- 
pletely annul  me.  I  have  no  need  of  an 
enchanted  wax  figure  to  duplicate  me,  for 
I  am  melting  in  my  proper  person  before 
the  fire.  If  you  meet  with  anything  better 
(worse)  than  common  in  your  Magazines 
let  me  see  it. 

Good  bye  my  sweetest  Girl.          J.  K. 

175.      TO  THE  SAME 

MY  DEAREST  FANNY  —  Whenever  you 
know  me  to  be  alone,  come,  no  matter  what 
day.  Why  will  you  go  out  this  weather  ? 
I  shall  not  fatigue  myself  with  writing  too 
much  I  promise  you.  Brown  says  I  am 
getting  stouter.  I  rest  well  and  from  last 
night  do  not  remember  any  thing  horrid  in 
my  dream,  which  is  a  capital  symptom,  for 


any  organic  derangement  always  occasions 
a  Phantasmagoria.  It  will  be  a  nice  idle 
amusement  to  hunt  after  a  motto  for  my 
Book  which  I  will  have  if  lucky  enough  to 
hit  upon  a  fit  one  —  not  intending  to  write 
a  preface.  I  fear  I  am  too  late  with  my 
note  —  you  are  gone  out  —  you  will  be  as 
cold  as  a  topsail  in  a  north  latitude  —  I  ad- 
vise you  to  furl  yourself  and  come  in  a 
doors. 

Good  bye  Love.  J.  K. 


176.      TO  THE  SAME 

MY  DEAREST  FANNY  —  I  slept  well  last 
night  and  am  no  worse  this  morning  for  it. 
Day  by  day  if  I  am  not  deceived  I  get  a 
more  unrestrain'd  use  of  my  Chest.  The 
nearer  a  racer  gets  to  the  Goal  the  more  his 
anxiety  becomes;  so  I  lingering  upon  the 
borders  of  health  feel  my  impatience  in- 
crease. Perhaps  on  your  account  I  have 
imagined  my  illness  more  serious  than  it  is: 
how  horrid  was  the  chance  of  slipping  into 
the  ground  instead  of  into  your  arms  —  the 
difference  is  amazing  Love.  Death  must 
come  at  last;  Man  must  die,  as  Shallow 
says;  but  before  that  is  my  fate  I  fain 
would  try  what  more  pleasures  than  you 
have  given,  so  sweet  a  creature  as  you  can 
give.  Let  me  have  another  opportunity  of 
years  before  me  and  I  will  not  die  without 
being  remember'd.  Take  care  of  yourself 
dear  that  we  may  both  be  well  in  the  Sum- 
mer. I  do  not  at  all  fatigue  myself  with 
writing,  having  merely  to  put  a  line  or  two 
here  and  there,  a  Task  which  would  worry 
a  stout  state  of  the  body  and  mind,  but 
which  just  suits  me  as  I  can  do  no  more. 
Your  affectionate  J.  K. 


177.     TO  THE  SAME 

MY  DEAREST  FANNY  —  Though  I  shall 
see  you  in  so  short  a  time  I  cannot  forbear 
sending  you  a  few  lines.  You  say  I  did 


TO   FANNY   BRAWNE 


433 


not  give  you  yesterday  a  minute  account  of 
my  health.  Today  I  have  left  off  the 
Medicine  which  I  took  to  keep  the  pulse 
down  and  I  find  I  can  do  very  well  without 
it,  which  is  a  very  favourable  sign,  as  it 
shows  there  is  no  inflammation  remaining. 
You  think  I  may  be  wearied  at  night  you 
say:  it  is  my  best  time;  I  am  at  my  best 
about  eight  o'Clock.  I  received  a  Note 
from  Mr.  Procter  today.  He  says  he  can- 
not pay  me  a  visit  this  weather  as  he  is 
fearful  of  an  inflammation  in  the  Chest. 
What  a  horrid  climate  this  is  ?  or  what 
careless  inhabitants  it  has  ?  You  are  one 
of  them.  My  dear  girl  do  not  make  a  joke 
of  it:  do  not  expose  yourself  to  the  cold. 
There's  the  Thrush  again  —  I  can't  afford 
it  —  he  '11  run  me  up  a  pretty  Bill  for 
Music  —  besides  he  ought  to  know  I  deal 
at  dementi's.  How  can  you  bear  so  long 
an  imprisonment  at  Hampstead  ?  I  shall 
always  remember  it  with  all  the  gusto  that 
a  monopolizing  carle  should.  I  could  build 
an  Altar  to  you  for  it. 

Your  affectionate 

J.  K. 


178.      TO  FANNY  KEATS 

[March  20,  1820.] 

MY  DEAR  FANNY  —  According  to  your 
desire  I  write  to-day.  It  must  be  but  a 
few  lines,  for  I  have  been  attack'd  several 
times  \vith  a  palpitation  at  the  heart  and 
the  Doctor  says  I  must  not  make  the 
slightest  exertion.  I  am  much  the  same 
to-day  as  I  have  been  for  a  week  past.  They 
say  'tis  nothing  but  debility  and  will  entirely 
cease  on  my  recovery  of  my  strength  which 
is  the  object  of  my  present  diet.  As  the 
Doctor  will  not  suffer  me  to  write  I  shall 
ask  Mr.  Brown  to  let  you  hear  news  of  me 
for  the  future  if  I  should  not  get  stronger 
soon.  I  hope  I  shall  be  well  enough  to 
come  and  see  your  flowers  in  bloom. 
Ever  your  most  affectionate  Brother 
JOHN . 


179.      TO  FANNY  BRAWNE 

MY  DEAREST  GIRL  —  As,  from  the  last 
part  of  my  note  you  must  see  how  gratified 
I  have  been  by  your  remaining  at  home, 
you  might  perhaps  conceive  that  I  was 
equally  bias'd  the  other  way  by  your  going 
to  Town,  I  cannot  be  easy  to-night  without 
telling  you  you  would  be  wrong  to  suppose 
so.  Though  I  am  pleased  with  the  one,  I 
am  not  displeased  with  the  other.  How 
do  I  dare  to  write  in  this  manner  about  my 
pleasures  and  displeasures  ?  I  will  tho* 
whilst  I  am  an  invalid,  in  spite  of  you. 
Good  night,  Love  !  J.  K. 


180.  TO  THE  SAME 

MY  DEAREST  GIRL  —  In  consequence  of 
our  company  I  suppose  I  shall  not  see  you 
before  tomorrow.  I  am  much  better  to- 
day —  indeed  all  I  have  to  complain  of  is 
want  of  strength  and  a  little  tightness  in 
the  Chest.  I  envied  Sam's  walk  with  you 
today;  which  I  will  not  do  again  as  I  may 
get  very  tired  of  envying.  I  imagine  you 
now  sitting  in  your  new  black  dress  which 
I  like  so  much  and  if  I  were  a  little  less 
selfish  and  more  enthusiastic  I  should  run 
round  and  surprise  you  with  a  knock  at 
the  door.  I  fear  I  am  too  prudent  for  a 
dying  kind  of  Lover.  Yet,  there  is  a  great 
difference  between  going  off  in  warm  blood 
like  Romeo,  and  making  one's  exit  like  a 
frog  in  a  frost.  I  had  nothing  particular 
to  say  today,  but  not  intending  that  there 
shall  be  any  interruption  to  our  correspond- 
ence (which  at  some  future  time  I  propose 
offering  to  Murray)  I  write  something. 
God  bless  you  my  sweet  Love  !  Illness  is 
a  long  lane,  but  I  see  you  at  the  end  of  it, 
and  shall  mend  my  pace  as  well  as  pos- 
sible. J.  K. 

181.  TO  THE  SAME 

DEAR  GIRL  —  Yesterday  you  must  have 
thought  me  worse  than  I  really  was.  I 


434 


LETTERS   OF  JOHN   KEATS 


assure  you  there  was  nothing  but  regret  at 
being  obliged  to  forego  an  embrace  which 
has  so  many  times  been  the  highest  gust  of 
my  Life.  I  would  not  care  for  health  with- 
out it.  Sam  would  not  come  in  —  I  wanted 
merely  to  ask  him  how  you  were  this  morn- 
ing. When  one  is  not  quite  well  we  turn 
for  relief  to  those  we  love  :  this  is  no  weak- 
ness of  spirit  in  me:  you  know  when  in 
health  I  thought  of  nothing  but  you;  when 
I  shall  again  be  so  it  will  be  the  same. 
Brown  has  been  mentioning  to  me  that 
some  hint  from  Sam,  last  night,  occasions 
him  some  uneasiness.  He  whispered  some- 
thing to  you  concerning  Brown  and  old 
Mr.  Dilke  which  had  the  complexion  of 
being  something  derogatory  to  the  former. 
It  was  connected  with  an  anxiety  about 
Mr.  D.  Sr's  death  and  an  anxiety  to  set  out 
for  Chichester.  These  sort  of  hints  point 
out  their  own  solution:  one  cannot  pretend 
to  a  delicate  ignorance  on  the  subject:  you 
understand  the  whole  matter.  If  any  one, 
my  sweet  Love,  has  misrepresented,  to  you, 
to  your  Mother  or  Sam,  any  circumstances 
which  are  at  all  likely,  at  a  tenth  remove,  to 
create  suspicions  among  people  who  from 
their  own  interested  notions  slander  others, 
pray  tell  me:  for  I  feel  the  least  attaint  on 
the  disinterested  character  of  Brown  very 
deeply.  Perhaps  Reynolds  or  some  other 
of  my  friends  may  come  towards  evening, 
therefore  you  may  choose  whether  you  will 
come  to  see  me  early  today  before  or  after 
dinner  as  you  may  think  fit.  Remember 
me  to  your  Mother  and  tell  her  to  drag 
you  to  me  if  you  show  the  least  reluc- 
tance — 


182.      TO  FANNY  KEATS 

Wentworth  Place,  April  1  [1820]. 

MY  DEAR  FANNY  —  I  am  getting  better 

every  day  and  should  think  myself  quite 

well  were  I  not  reminded  every  now  and 

then  by  faintness   and  a  tightness  in  the 


Chest.  Send  your  Spaniel  over  to  Hamp- 
stead,  for  I  think  I  know  where  to  find  a 
Master  or  Mistress  for  him.  You  may  de- 
pend upon  it  if  you  were  even  to  turn  it 
loose  in  the  common  road  it  would  soon 
find  an  owner.  If  I  keep  improving  as  I 
have  done  I  shall  be  able  to  come  over  to 
you  in  the  course  of  a  few  weeks.  I  should 
take  the  advantage  of  your  being  in  Town 
but  I  cannot  bear  the  City  though  I  have 
already  ventured  as  far  as  the  west  end  for 
the  purpose  of  seeing  Mr.  Haydon's  Pic- 
ture, which  is  just  finished  and  has  made 
its  appearance.  I  have  not  heard  from 
George  yet  since  he  left  Liverpool.  Mr. 
Brown  wrote  to  him  as  from  me  the  other 
day  —  Mr.  B.  wrote  two  Letters  to  Mr. 
Abbey  concerning  me  —  Mr.  A.  took  no 
notice  and  of  course  Mr.  B.  must  give  up 
such  a  correspondence  when  as  the  man 
said  all  the  Letters  are  on  one  side.  I 
write  with  greater  ease  than  I  had  thought, 
therefore  you  shall  soon  hear  from  me 
again. 

Your  affectionate  Brother  JOHN . 


183.      TO  THE  SAME 

[April  1820.] 

MY  DEAR  FANNY  —  Mr.  Brown  is  wait- 
ing for  me  to  take  a  walk.  Mrs.  Dilke  is 
on  a  visit  next  door  and  desires  her  love  to 
you.  The  Dog  shall  be  taken  care  of  and 
for  his  name  I  shall  go  and  look  in  the 
parish  register  where  he  was  born  —  I  still 
continue  on  the  mending  hand. 

Your  affectionate  Brother  JOHN  — ~. 


184.      TO  THE   SAME 

Wentworth  Place,  April  12,  [1820]. 
MY  DEAR  FANNY  —  Excuse  these  shabby 
scraps  of  paper  I  send  you  —  and  also  from 
endeavouring  to  give  you  any  consolation 
just  at  present,  for  though  my  health  is 
tolerably  well  I  am  too  nervous  to  enter 
into  any  discussion  in  which  my  heart  is 


TO   FANNY   KEATS 


435 


concerned.  Wait  patiently  and  take  care 
of  your  health,  being  especially  careful  to 
keep  yourself  from  low  spirits  which  are 
great  enemies  to  health.  You  are  young 
and  have  only  need  of  a  little  patience. 
I  am  not  yet  able  to  bear  the  fatigue  of 
coming  to  Walthamstow,  though  I  have 
been  to  Town  once  or  twice.  I  have 
thought  of  taking  a  change  of  air.  You 
shall  hear  from  me  immediately  on  my 
moving  anywhere.  I  will  ask  Mrs.  Dilke 
to  pay  you  a  visit  if  the  weather  holds  fine, 
the  first  time  I  see  her.  The  Dog  is  being 
attended  to  like  a  Prince. 

Your  affectionate  Brother  JOHN. 


185.      TO  THE   SAME 

[Hampstead,  April  21, 1820.] 
MY  DEAR  FANNY  —  I  have  been  slowly 
improving  since  I  wrote  last.  The  Doctor 
assures  me  that  there  is  nothing  the  matter 
with  me  except  nervous  irritability  and  a 
general  weakness  of  the  whole  system, 
which  has  proceeded  from  my  anxiety  of 
mind  of  late  years  and  the  too  great  excite- 
ment of  poetry.  Mr.  Brown  is  going  to 
Scotland  by  the  Smack,  and  I  am  advised 
for  change  of  exercise  and  air  to  accompany 
him  and  give  myself  the  chance  of  benefit 
from  a  Voyage.  Mr.  H.  Wylie  calFd  on 
me  yesterday  with  a  letter  from  George  to 
his  mother  :  George  is  safe  at  the  other 
side  of  the  water,  perhaps  by  this  time  ar- 
rived at  his  home.  I  wish  you  were  com- 
ing to  town  that  I  might  see  you  ;  if  you 
should  be  coming  write  to  me,  as  it  is  quite 
a  trouble  to  get  by  the  coaches  to  Waltham- 
stow. Should  you  not  come  to  Town  I 
must  see  you  before  I  sail,  at  Walthamstow. 
They  tell  me  I  must  study  lines  and  tan- 
gents and  squares  and  angles  to  put  a  little 
Ballast  into  my  mind.  We  shall  be  going 
in  a  fortnight  and  therefore  you  will  see 
me  within  that  space.  I  expected  sooner, 
but  I  have  not  been  able  to  venture  to  walk 
across  the  country.  Now  the  fine  Weather 


is  come  you  will  not  find  your  time  so  irk- 
some. You  must  be  sensible  how  much  I 
regret  not  being  able  to  alleviate  the  un- 
pleasantness of  your  situation,  but  trust  my 
dear  Fanny  that  better  times  are  in  wait 
for  you. 

Your  affectionate  Brother  JOHN . 


186.      TO  THE  SAME 

Wentworth  Place,  Thursday  [May  4, 1820]. 
MY  DEAR  FANNY  —  I  went  for  the  first 
time  into  the  City  the  day  before  yesterday, 
for  before  I  was  very  disinclined  to  en- 
counter the  scuffle,  more  from  nervousness 
than  real  illness  ;  which  notwithstanding  I 
should  not  have  suffered  to  conquer  me  if 
I  had  not  made  up  my  mind  not  to  go  to 
Scotland,  but  to  remove  to  Kentish  Town 
till  Mr.  Brown  returns.  Kentish  Town  is 
a  mile  nearer  to  you  than  Hampstead  — 
I  have  been  getting  gradually  better,  but 
am  not  so  well  as  to  trust  myself  to  the 
casualties  of  rain  and  sleeping  out  which  I 
am  liable  to  in  visiting  you.  Mr.  Brown 
goes  on  Saturday,  and  by  that  time  I  shall 
have  settled  in  my  new  lodging,  when  I 
will  certainly  venture  to  you.  You  will 
forgive  me  I  hope  when  I  confess  that  I  en- 
deavour to  think  of  you  as  little  as  possible 
and  to  let  George  dwell  upon  my  mind  but 
slightly.  The  reason  being  that  I  am 
afraid  to  ruminate  on  anything  which  has 
the  shade  of  difficulty  or  melancholy  in  it, 
as  that  sort  of  cogitation  is  so  pernicious  to 
health,  and  it  is  only  by  health  that  I  can  be 
enabled  to  alleviate  your  situation  in  future. 
For  some  time  you  must  do  what  you  can 
of  yourself  for  relief ;  and  bear  your  mind 
up  with  the  consciousness  that  your  situa- 
tion cannot  last  for  ever,  and  that  for  the 
present  you  may  console  yourself  against 
the  reproaches  of  Mrs.  Abbey.  Whatever 
obligations  you  may  have  had  to  her  you 
have  none  now,  as  she  has  reproached  you. 
J  do  not  know  what  property  you  have,  but 
I  will  enquire  into  it :  be  sure  however  that 


436 


LETTERS   OF  JOHN   KEATS 


beyond  the  obligation  that  a  lodger  may 
have  to  a  landlord  you  have  none  to  Mrs. 
Abbey.  Let  the  surety  of  this  make  you 
laugh  at  Mrs.  A.'s  foolish  tattle.  Mrs. 
Dilke's  Brother  has  got  your  Dog.  She  is 
now  very  well  —  still  liable  to  Illness.  I 
will  get  her  to  come  and  see  you  if  I  can 
make  up  my  mind  on  the  propriety  of  in- 
troducing a  stranger  into  Abbey's  house. 
Be  careful  to  let  no  fretting  injure  your 
health  as  I  have  suffered  it  —  health  is  the 
greatest  of  blessings  —  with  health  and 
hope  we  should  be  content  to  live,  and  so 
you  will  find  as  you  grow  older. 

I  am,  my  dear  Fanny,  your  affectionate 
Brother,  JOHN . 


187.     TO  CHARLES    WENTWOBTH  DILKE 

[Hampstead,  May  1820.] 
MY  DEAR  DILKE  —  As  Brown  is  not  to 
be  a  fixture  at  Hampstead,  I  have  at  last 
made  up  my  mind  to  send  home  all  lent 
books.  I  should  have  seen  you  before  this, 
but  my  mind  has  been  at  work  all  over  the 
world  to  find  out  what  to  do.  I  have  my 
choice  of  three  things,  or  at  least  two,  — 
South  America,  or  Surgeon  to  an  India- 
man  ;  which  last,  I  think,  will  be  my  fate. 
I  shall  resolve  in  a  few  days.  Remember 
me  to  Mrs.  D.  and  Charles,  and  your  father 
and  mother. 

Ever  truly  yours  JOHN  KEATS. 


188.      TO   FANNY    BRAWNE 

MY  DEAREST  GIRL  —  I  endeavour  to 
make  myself  as  patient  as  possible.  Hunt 
amuses  me  very  kindly  —  besides  I  have 
your  ring  on  my  finger  and  your  flowers 
on  the  table.  I  shall  not  expect  to  see  you 
yet  because  it  would  be  so  much  pain  to 
part  with  you  again.  When  the  Books  you 
want  come  you  shall  have  them.  I  am 
very  well  this  afternoon.  My  dearest.  .  .  . 
[Signature  cut  off.] 


189.      TO  THE   SAME 

Tuesday  Afternoon. 

MY  DEAREST  FANNY  —  For  this  Week 
past  I  have  been  employed  in  marking  the 
most  beautiful  passages  in  Spenser,  intend- 
ing it  for  you,  and  comforting  myself  in 
being  somehow  occupied  to  give  you  how- 
ever small  a  pleasure.  It  has  lightened 
my  time  very  much.  I  am  much  better. 
God  bless  you. 

Your  affectionate  J.  KEATS. 


190.      TO  THE  SAME 

Tuesday  Morn. 

MY  DEAREST  GIRL  —  I  wrote  a  letter  for 
you  yesterday  expecting  to  have  seen  your 
mother.  I  shall  be  selfish  enough  to  send 
it  though  I  know  it  may  give  you  a  little 
pain,  because  I  wish  you  to  see  how  un- 
happy I  am  for  love  of  you,  and  endeavour 
as  much  as  I  can  to  entice  you  to  give  up 
your  whole  heart  to  me  whose  whole  exist- 
ence hangs  upon  you.  You  could  not  step 
or  move  an  eyelid  but  it  would  shoot  to 
my  heart  —  I  am  greedy  of  you.  Do  not 
think  of  anything  but  me.  Do  not  live  as 
if  I  was  not  existing.  Do  not  forget  me  — 
But  have  I  any  right  to  say  you  forget 
me?  Perhaps  you  think  of  me  all  day. 
Have  I  any  right  to  wish  you  to  be  un- 
happy for  me  ?  You  would  forgive  me  for 
wishing  it  if  you  knew  the  extreme  passion 
I  have  that  you  should  love  me  —  and  for 
you  to  love  me  as  I  do  you,  you  must  think 
of  no  one  but  me,  much  less  write  that 
sentence.  Yesterday  and  this  morning  I 
have  been  haunted  with  a  sweet  vision  —  I 
Lave  seen  you  the  whole  time  in  your 
shepherdess  dress.  How  my  senses  have 
ached  at  it  !  How  my  heart  has  been 
devoted  to  it  !  How  my  eyes  have  been 
full  of  tears  at  it !  I[n]deed  I  think  a  real 
love  is  enough  to  occupy  the  widest  heart. 
Your  going  to  town  alone  when  I  heard  of 
it  was  a  shock  to  me  —  yet  I  expected  it  — • 


TO  CHARLES  ARMITAGE  BROWN 


437 


promise  me  you  will  not  for  some  lime  till  I  get 
better.  Promise  me  this  and  fill  the  paper 
full  of  the  most  endearing  names.  If  you 
cannot  do  so  with  good  will,  do  my  love  tell 
me  —  say  what  you  think  —  confess  if  your 
heart  is  too  much  fastened  on  the  world. 
Perhaps  then  I  may  see  you  at  a  greater 
distance,  I  may  not  be  able  to  appropriate 
you  so  closely  to  myself.  Were  you  to 
loose  a  favourite  bird  from  the  cage,  how 
would  your  eyes  ache  after  it  as  long  as  it 
was  in  sight  ;  when  out  of  sight  you  would 
recover  a  little.  Perhaps  if  you  would,  if 
so  it  is,  confess  to  me  how  many  things  are 
necessary  to  you  besides  me,  I  might  be 
happier  ;  by  being  less  tantaliz'd.  Well 
may  you  exclaim,  how  selfish,  how  cruel 
not  to  let  me  enjoy  my  youth  !  to  wish  me 
to  be  unhappy.  You  must  be  so  if  you 
love  me.  Upon  my  soul  I  can  be  contented 
with  nothing  else.  If  you  would  really 
what  is  call'd  enjoy  yourself  at  a  Party  — 
if  you  can  smile  in  people's  faces,  and  wish 
them  to  admire  you  now  —  you  never  have 
nor  ev«r  will  love  me.  I  see  life  in  no- 
thing but  the  certainty  of  your  Love  —  con- 
vince me  of  it  my  sweetest.  If  I  am  not 
somehow  convinced  I  shall  die  of  agony. 
If  we  love  we  must  not  live  as  other  men 
and  women  do  —  I  cannot  brook  the  wolfs- 
bane  of  fashion  and  foppery  and  tattle  — 
you  must  be  mine  to  die  upon  the  rack  if 
I  want  you.  I  do  not  pretend  to  say  that  I 
have  more  feeling  than  my  fellows,  but  I 
wish  you  seriously  to  look  over  my  letters 
kind  and  unkind  and  consider  whether  the 
person  who  wrote  them  can  be  able  to  en- 
dure much  longer  the  agonies  and  uncer- 
tainties which  you  are  so  peculiarly  made 
to  create.  My  recovery  of  bodily  health 
will  be  of  no  benefit  to  me  if  you  are  not 
mine  when  I  am  well.  For  God's  sake 
save  me  —  or  tell  me  my  passion  is  of  too 
awful  a  nature  for  you.  Again  God  bless 
you. 

J.  K. 

No  —  my  sweet  Fanny  —  I  am  wrong  —  I 
do  not  wish  you  to  be  unhappy  —  and  yet  I 


do,  I  must  while  there  is  so  sweet  a  Beauty 
—  my  loveliest,  my  darling  !  good  bye  !  I 
kiss  you  —  O  the  torments  ! 

191.      TO  JOHN  TAYLOB 

[Wesleyan  Place,  Kentish  Town] 

June  11,  [1820.] 

MY  DEAR  TAYLOR  —  In  reading  over 
the  proof  of  St.  Agnes's  Eve  since  I  left 
Fleet  Street,  I  was  struck  with  what  ap- 
pears to  me  an  alteration  in  the  seventh 
stanza  very  much  for  the  worse.  The  pas- 
sage I  mean  stands  thus  — 

her  maiden  eyes  incline 

Still  on  the  floor,  while  many  a  sweeping  train 
Pass  by 

'T  was  originally  written  — 

her  maiden  eyes  divine 

Fix'd  on  the  floor,  saw  many  a  sweeping  train 
Pass  by. 

My  meaning  is  quite  destroyed  in  the  alter- 
ation. I  do  not  use  train  for  concourse  of 
passers  by,  but  for  skirts  sweeping  along 
the  floor. 

In  the  first  stanza  my  copy  reads,  second 
line  — 

bitter  chill  it  was, 

to  avoid  the  echo  cold  in  the  second  line. 
Ever  yours  sincerely        JOHN  KEATS. 

192.      TO   CHARLES   ARMITAGE   BROWN 

•    [Wesleyan  Place,  Kentish  Town,  June,  1820.] 
MY  DEAR  BROWN  —  I  have  only  been  to 

's  once  since  you  left,  when could 

not  find  your  letters.  Now  this  is  bad  of 
me.  I  should,  in  this  instance,  conquer  the 
great  aversion  to  breaking  up  my  regular 
habits,  which  grows  upon  me  more  and 
more.  True,  I  have  an  excuse  in  the 
weather,  which  drives  one  from  shelter  to 
shelter  in  any  little  excursion.  I  have 
not  heard  from  George.  My  book  is  com- 
ing out  with  very  low  hopes,  though  not 
spirits,  on  my  part.  This  shall  be  my  last 


LETTERS   OF  JOHN   KEATS 


trial  ;  not  succeeding,  I  shall  try  what  I  can 
do  in  the  apothecary  line.  When  you  hear 

from   or  see it   is   probable  you  will 

hear  some  complaints  against  me,  which 
this  notice  is  not  intended  to  forestall. 
The  fact  is,  I  did  behave  badly  ;  but  it  is 
to  be  attributed  to  my  health,  spirits,  and 
the  disadvantageous  ground  I  stand  on  in 
society.  I  could  go  and  accommodate  mat- 
ters if  I  were  not  too  weary  of  the  world. 
I  know  that  they  are  more  happy  and  com- 
fortable than  I  am  ;  therefore  why  should 
I  trouble  myself  about  it?  I  foresee  I 
shall  know  very  few  people  in  the  course 
of  a  year  or  two.  Men  get  such  different 
habits  that  they  become  as  oil  and  vinegar 
to  one  another.  Thus  far  I  have  a  con- 
sciousness of  having  been  pretty  dull  and 
heavy,  both  in  subject  and  phrase ;  I  might 
add,  enigmatical.  I  am  in  the  wrong,  and 
the  world  is  in  the  right,  I  have  no  doubt. 
Fact  is,  I  have  had  so  many  kindnesses 
done  me  by  so  many  people,  that  I  am 
cheveaux-de-frised  with  benefits,  which  I 
must  jump  over  or  break  down.  I  met 

in  town,  a  few  days  ago,  who  invited 

me  to  supper  to  meet  Wordsworth,  Southey, 
Lamb,  Haydon,  and  some  more  ;  I  was  too 
careful  of  my  health  to  risk  being  out  at 
night.  Talking  of  that,  I  continue  to  im- 
prove slowly,  but  I  think  surely.  There  is 
a  famous  exhibition  in  Pall-Mail  of  the  old 
English  portraits  by  Vandyck  and  Holbein, 
Sir  Peter  Lely,  and  the  great  Sir  Godfrey. 
Pleasant  countenances  predominate  ;  so  I 
will  mention  two  or  three  unpleasant  ones.* 
There  is  James  the  First,  whose  appearance 
would  disgrace  a  '  Society  for  the  Sup- 
pression of  Women  ; '  so  very  squalid  and 
subdued  to  nothing  he  looks.  Then,  there 
is  old  Lord  Burleigh,  the  high-priest  of 
economy,  the  political  save-all,  who  has  the 
appearance  of  a  Pharisee  just  rebuffed  by 
a  Gospel  bon-mot.  Then,  there  is  George 
the  Second,  very  like  an  unintellectual 
Voltaire,  troubled  with  the  gout  and  a  bad 
temper.  Then,  there  is  young  Devereux, 
the  favourite,  with  every  appearance  of  as 


slang  a  boxer  as  any  in  the  Court  ;  his 
face  is  cast  in  the  mould  of  blackguardism 
with  jockey-plaster.  I  shall  soon  begin 
upon  '  Lucy  Vaughan  Lloyd.'  86  I  do  not 
begin  composition  yet,  being  willing,  in 
case  of  a  relapse,  to  have  nothing  to  re- 
proach myself  with.  I  hope  the  weather 
will  give  you  the  slip  ;  let  it  show  itself  and 
steal  out  of  your  company.  When  I  have 
sent  off  this,  I  shall  write  another  to  some 
place  about  fifty  miles  in  advance  of  you. 
Good  morning  to  you.  Yours  ever  sin- 
cerely. JOHN  KEATS. 


193.      TO  FANNY  KEATS 

Friday  Morn  [Wesleyan  Place, 
Kentish  Town,  June  26,  1820.] 

MY  DEAR  FANNY  —  I  had  intended  to 
delay  seeing  you  till  a  Book  which  I  am 
now  publishing  was  out,  expecting  that  to 
be  the  end  of  this  week  when  I  would  have 
brought  it  to  Walthamstow  :  on  receiving 
your  Letter  of  course  I  set  myself  to  come 
to  town,  but  was  not  able,  for  just  as  I  was 
setting  out  yesterday  morning  a  slight 
spitting  of  blood  came  on  which  returned 
rather  more  copiously  at  night.  I  have 
slept  well  and  they  tell  me  there  is  nothing 
material  to  fear.  I  will  send  my  Book 
soon  with  a  Letter  which  I  have  had  from 
George  who  is  with  his  family  quite  well. 

Your  affectionate  Brother  JOHN . 


194.      TO  FANNY  BRAWNE 

Wednesday  Morning. 

MY  DEAREST  FANNY — I  have  been  a 
walk  this  morning  with  a  book  in  my  hand, 
but  as  usual  I  have  been  occupied  with 
nothing  but  you  :  I  wish  I  could  say  in  an 
agreeable  manner.  I  am  tormented  day 
and  night.  They  talk  of  my  going  to  Italy. 
JT  is  certain  I  shall  never  recover  if  I  am 
to  be  so  long  separate  from  you  :  yet  with 
all  this  devotion  to  you  I  cannot  persuade 
myself  into  any  confidence  of  you.  Past 


TO    FANNY   KEATS 


439 


experience  connected  with  the  fact  of  my 
long  separation  from  you  gives  me  agonies 
which  are  scarcely  to  be  talked  of.  When 
your  mother  comes  I  shall  be  very  sudden 
and  expert  in  asking  her  whether  you  have 
been  to  Mrs.  Dilke's,  for  she  might  say  no 
to  make  me  easy.  I  am  literally  worn  to 
death,  which  seems  my  only  recourse.  I 
cannot  forget  what  has  pass'd.  What  ? 
nothing  with  a  man  of  the  world,  but  to 
me  deathf  ul.  I  will  get  rid  of  this  as  much 
as  possible.  When  you  were  in  the  habit 
of  flirting  with  Brown  you  would  have  left 
off,  could  your  own  heart  have  felt  one 
half  of  one  pang  mine  did.  Brown  is  a 
good  sort  of  Man  —  he  did  not  know  he 
was  doing  me  to  death  by  inches.  I  feel 
the  effect  of  every  one  of  those  hours  in 
my  side  now ;  and  for  that  cause,  though 
he  has  done  me  many  services,  though  I 
know  his  love  and  friendship  for  me,  though 
at  this  moment  I  should  be  without  pence 
were  it  not  for  his  assistance,  I  will  never 
see  or  speak  to  him  until  we  are  both  old 
men,  if  we  are  to  be.  I  will  resent  my 
heart  having  been  made  a  football.  You 
will  call  this  madness.  I  have  heard  you 
say  that  it  was  not  unpleasant  to  wait  a 
few  years  —  you  have  amusements  —  your 
mind  is  away  —  you  have  not  brooded  over 
one  idea  as  I  have,  and  how  should  you  ? 
You  are  to  me  an  object  intensely  desira- 
ble —  the  air  I  breathe  in  a  room  empty  of 
you  is  unhealthy.  I  am  not  the  same  to 
you  —  no  —  you  can  wait  —  you  have  a 
thousand  activities  —  you  can  be  happy 
without  me.  Any  party,  any  thing  to  fill 
up  the  day  has  been  enough.  How  have 
you  pass'd  this  month  ?  Who  have  you 
smil'd  with  ?  All  this  may  seem  savage 
in  me.  You  do  not  feel  as  I  do  —  you  do 
not  know  what  it  is  to  love  —  one  day  you 
may  —  your  time  is  not  come.  Ask  your- 
self how  many  unhappy  hours  Keats  has 
caused  you  in  Loneliness.  For  myself  I 
have  been  a  Martyr  the  whole  time,  and 
for  this  reason  I  speak  ;  the  confession  is 
forc'd  from  me  by  the  torture.  I  appeal 


to  you  by  the  blood  of  that  Christ  you  be- 
lieve in  :  Do  not  write  to  me  if  you  have 
done  anything  this  month  which  it  would 
have  pained  me  to  have  seen.  You  may 
have  altered  —  if  you  have  not  —  if  you 
still  behave  in  dancing  rooms  and  other 
societies  as  I  have  seen  you  —  I  do  not 
want  to  live  —  if  you  have  done  so  I  wish 
this  coming  night  may  be  my  last.  I  can- 
not live  without  you,  and  not  only  you  but 
chaste  you;  virtuous  you.  The  Sun  rises 
and  sets,  the  day  passes,  and  you  follow 
the  bent  of  your  inclination  to  a  certain 
extent  —  you  have  no  conception  of  the 
quantity  of  miserable  feeling  that  passes 
through  me  in  a  day.  —  Be  serious  !  Love 
is  not  a  plaything  —  and  again  do  not 
write  unless  you  can  do  it  with  a  crystal 
conscience.  I  would  sooner  die  for  want 
of  you  than  — 

Yours  for  ever 

J.  KEATS. 

195.      TO  FANNY    K  I-  ATS 

Mortimer  Terrace,  Wednesday  [July  5,  1820]. 
MY  DEAR  FANNY  —  I  have  had  no  re- 
turn of  the  spitting  of  blood,  and  for  two 
or  three  days  have  been  getting  a  little 
stronger.  I  have  no  hopes  of  an  entire 
reestablishment  of  my  health  under  some 
months  of  patience.  My  Physician  tells 
me  I  must  contrive  to  pass  the  Winter  in 
Italy.  This  is  all  very  unfortunate  for  us 
—  we  have  no  recourse  but  patience,  which 
I  am  now  practising  better  than  ever  I 
thought  it  possible  for  me.  I  have  this 
moment  received  a  Letter  from  Mr.  Brown, 
dated  Dun  vegan  Castle,  Island  of  Skye. 
He  is  very  well  in  health  and  spirits.  My 
new  publication  has  been  out  for  some  days 
and  I  have  directed  a  Copy  to  be  bound 
for  you,  which  you  will  receive  shortly. 
No  one  can  regret  Mr.  Hodgkinson's  ill 
fortune  :  I  must  own  illness  has  not  made 
such  a  Saint  of  me  as  to  prevent  my  re- 
joicing at  his  reverse.  Keep  yourself  in  as 
good  hopes  as  possible  ;  in  case  my  illness 


440 


LETTERS   OF  JOHN   KEATS 


should  continue  an  unreasonable  time  many 
of  my  friends  would  I  trust  for  my  sake  do 
all  in  their  power  to  console  and  amuse 
you,  at  the  least  word  from  me  —  You  may 
depend  upon  it  that  in  case  my  strength 
returns  I  will  do  ail  in  my  power  to  extri- 
cate you  from  the  Abbeys.  Be  above  all 
things  careful  of  your  health  which  is  the 
corner  stone  of  all  pleasure. 

Your  affectionate  Brother  JOHN . 


196.      TO  BENJAMIN  ROBERT  HAYDON 

[Mortimer  Terrace,  July,  1820.] 
MY  DEAR  HAYDON  —  I  am  sorry  to  be 
obliged  to  try  your  patience  a  few  more 
days  when  you  will  have  the  Book  [Chap- 
man's Homer]  sent  from  Town.     I  am  glad 
to  hear  you  are   in  progress  with  another 
Picture.     Go  on.     I  am  afraid  I  shall  pop 
off  just  when  my  mind  is  able  to  run  alone. 
Your  sincere  friend 

JOHN  KEATS. 


197.      TO  FANNY  KEATS 

Mortimer  Terrace  [July  22,  1820.] 
MY  DEAR  FANNY  —  I  have  been  gain- 
ing strength  for  some  days  :  it  would  be 
well  if  I  could  at  the  same  time  say  I  am 
gaining  hopes  of  a  speedy  recovery.  My 
constitution  has  suffered  very  much  for  two 
or  three  years  past,  so  as  to  be  scarcely 
able  to  make  head  against  illness,  which 
the  natural  activity  and  impatience  of  my 
Mind  renders  more  dangerous.  It  will  at 
all  events  be  a  very  tedious  affair,  and  you 
must  expect  to  hear  very  little  alteration  of 
any  sort  in  me  for  some  time.  You  ought 
to  have  received  a  copy  of  my  Book  ten 
days  ago.  I  shall  send  another  message  to 
the  Booksellers.  One  of  the  Mr.  Wylie's 
will  be  here  to-day  or  to-morrow  when  I 
will  ask  him  to  send  you  George's  Letter. 
Writing  the  smallest  note  is  so  annoying 
to  me  that  I  have  waited  till  I  shall  see 
him.  Mr.  Hunt  does  everything  in  his 


power  to  make  the  time  pass  as  agreeably 
with  me  as  possible.  I  read  the  greatest 
part  of  the  day,  and  generally  take  two 
half-hour  walks  a-day  up  and  down  the 
terrace  which  is  very  much  pester'd  with 
cries,  ballad  singers,  and  street  music.  We 
have  been  so  unfortunate  for  so  long  a  time, 
every  event  has  been  of  so  depressing  a 
nature  that  I  must  persuade  myself  to 
think  some  change  will  take  place  in  the 
aspect  of  our  affairs.  I  shall  be  upon  the 
look  out  for  a  trump  card. 

Your  affectionate  Brother 

JOHN . 


198.    TO  FANNY  BRAWNE 

MY  DEAREST  FANNY  —  My  head  is  puz- 
zled this  morning,  and  I  scarce  know  what 
I  shall  say  though  I  am  full  of  a  hundred 
things.  'Tis  certain  I  would  rather  be 
writing  to  you  this  morning,  notwithstand- 
ing the  alloy  of  grief  in  such  an  occupation, 
than  enjoy  any  other  pleasure,  with  health 
to  boot,  unconnected  with  you.  Upon  my 
soul  I  have  loved  you  to  the  extreme.  I 
wish  you  could  know  the  Tenderness  with 
which  I  continually  brood  over  your  differ- 
ent aspects  of  countenance,  action  and  dress. 
I  see  you  come  down  in  the  morning  :  I  see 
you  meet  me  at  the  Window  —  I  see  every 
thing  over  again  eternally  that  I  ever  have 
seen.  If  I  get  on  the  pleasant  clue  I  live 
in  a  sort  of  happy  misery,  if  on  the  un- 
pleasant 't  is  miserable  misery.  You  com- 
plain of  my  illtreating  you  in  word,  thought 
and  deed  —  I  am  sorry,  —  at  times  I  feel 
bitterly  sorry  that  I  ever  made  you  un- 
happy—  my  excuse  is  that  those  words 
have  been  wrung  from  me  by  the  sharp- 
ness of  my  feelings.  At  all  events  and 
in  any  case  I  have  been  wrong ;  could  I 
believe  that  I  did  it  without  any  cause,  I 
should  be  the  most  sincere  of  Penitents. 
I  could  give  way  to  my  repentant  feelings 
now,  I  could  recant  all  my  suspicions,  I 
could  mingle  with  you  heart  and  Soul 


TO   FANNY   BRAWNE 


441 


though  absent,  were  it  not  for  some  parts 
of  your  Letters.  Do  you  suppose  it  possi- 
ble I  could  ever  leave  you  ?  You  know 
what  I  think  of  myself  and  what  of  you. 
You  know  that  I  should  feel  how  much  it 
was  my  loss  and  how  little  yours.  My 
friends  laugh  at  you  !  I  know  some  of 
them  —  when  I  know  them  all  I  shall  never 
think  of  them  again  as  friends  or  even 
acquaintance.  My  friends  have  behaved 
well  to  me  in  every  instance  but  one,  and 
there  they  have  become  tattlers,  and  in- 
quisitors into  my  conduct  :  spying  upon  a 
secret  I  would  rather  die  than  share  it  with 
any  body's  confidence.  For  this  I  cannot 
wish  them  well,  I  care  not  to  see  any  of 
them  again.  If  I  am  the  Theme,  I  will 
not  be  the  Friend  of  idle  Gossips.  Good 
gods  what  a  shame  it  is  our  Loves  should 
be  so  put  into  the  microscope  of  a  Coterie. 
Their  laughs  should  not  affect  you  (I  may 
perhaps  give  you  reasons  some  day  for 
these  laughs,  for  I  suspect  a  few  people  to 
hate  me  well  enough,  for  reasons  I  know  of, 
who  have  pretended  a  great  friendship  for 
me)  when  in  competition  with  one,  who  if 
he  never  should  see  you  again  would  make 
you  the  Saint  of  his  memory.  These 
Laughers,  who  do  not  like  you,  who  envy 
you  for  your  Beauty,  who  would  have  God- 
bless'd  me  from  you  for  ever:  who  were 
plying  me  with  disencouragements  with 
respect  to  you  eternally.  People  are  re- 
vengeful —  do  not  mind  them  —  do  nothing 
but  love  me  —  if  I  knew  that  for  certain 
life  and  health  will  in  such  event  be  a  hea- 
ven, and  death  itself  will  be  less  painful. 
I  long  to  believe  in  immortality.  I  shall 
never  be  able  to  bid  you  an  entire  farewell. 
If  I  am  destined  to  be  happy  with  you  here 
—  how  short  is  the  longest  Life.  I  wish 
to  believe  in  immortality  —  I  wish  to  live 
with  you  for  ever.  Do  not  let  my  name 
ever  pass  between  you  and  those  laughers  ; 
if  I  have  no  other  merit  than  the  great 
Love  for  you,  that  were  sufficient  to  keep 
me  sacred  and  unmentioned  in  such  society. 


If  I  have  been  cruel  and  unjust  I  swear 
my  love  has  ever  been  greater  than  my 
cruelty  which  last  [sic]  but  a  minute  whereas 
my  Love  come  what  will  shall  last  for  ever. 
If  concession  to  me  has  hurt  your  Pride 
God  knows  I  have  had  little  pride  in  my 
heart  when  thinking  of  you.  Your  name 
never  passes  my  Lips  —  do  not  let  mine 
pass  yours.  Those  People  do  not  like  me. 
After  reading  my  Letter  you  even  then 
wish  to  see  me.  I  am  strong  enough  to 
walk  over  —  but  I  dare  not.  I  shall  feel 
so  much  pain  in  parting  with  you  again. 
My  dearest  love,  I  am  afraid  to  see  you  ; 
I  am  strong,  but  not  strong  enough  to  see 
you.  Will  my  arm  be  ever  round  you 
again,  and  if  so  shall  I  be  obliged  to  leave 
you  again  ?  My  sweet  Love  !  I  am  happy 
whilst  I  believe  your  first  Letter.  Let 
me  be  but  certain  that  you  are  mine  heart 
and  soul,  and  I  could  die  more  happily  than 
I  could  otherwise  live.  If  you  think  me 
cruel  —  if  you  think  I  have  sleighted  you 
—  do  muse  it  over  again  and  see  into  my 
heart.  My  love  to  you  is  *  true  as  truth's 
simplicity  and  simpler  than  the  infancy  of 
truth '  as  I  think  I  once  said  before.  How 
could  I  sleight  you  ?  How  threaten  to 
leave  you  ?  not  in  the  spirit  of  a  Threat  to 
you  —  no  —  but  in  the  spirit  of  Wretched- 
ness in  myself.  My  fairest,  my  delicious, 
my  angel  Fanny  !  do  not  believe  me  such 
a  vulgar  fellow.  I  will  be  as  patient  in 
illness  and  as  believing  in  Love  as  I  am 
able. 

Yours  for  ever  my  dearest 
JOHN  KEATS. 

199.    TO  THE  SAME 

I  do  not  write  this  till  the  last, 
that  no  eye  may  catch  it. 

MY  DEAREST  GIRL  —  I  wish  you  could 
invent  some  means  to  make  me  at  all  happy 
without  you.  Every  hour  I  am  more  and 
more  concentrated  in  you  ;  every  thing  else 
tastes  like  chaff  in  my  Mouth.  I  feel  it 


442 


LETTERS   OF  JOHN   KEATS 


almost  impossible  to  go  to  Italy  —  the  fact 
is  I  cannot  leave  you,  and  shall  never  taste 
one  minute's  content  until  it  pleases  chance 
to  let  me  live  with  you  for  good.  But  I 
will  not  go  on  at  this  rate.  A  person  in 
health  as  you  are  can  have  110  conception  of 
the  horrors  that  nerves  and  a  temper  like 
mine  go  through.  What  Island  do  your 
friends  propose  retiring  to  ?  I  should  be 
happy  to  go  with  you  there  alone,  but  in 
company  I  should  object  to  it ;  the  back- 
bitings  and  jealousies  of  new  colonists  who 
have  nothing  else  to  amuse  themselves,  is 
unbearable.  Mr.  Dilke  came  to  see  me 
yesterday,  and  gave  me  a  very  great  deal 
more  pain  than  pleasure.  I  shall  never  be 
able  any  more  to  endure  the  society  of  any 
of  those  who  used  to  meet  at  Elm  Cottage 
and  Wentworth  Place.  The  last  two  years 
taste  like  brass  upon  my  Palate.  If  I  can- 
not live  with  you  I  will  live  alone.  I  do 
not  think  my  health  will  improve  much 
while  I  am  separated  from  you.  For  all 
this  I  am  averse  to  seeing  you  —  I  cannot 
bear  flashes  of  light  and  return  into  my 
gloom  again.  I  am  not  so  unhappy  now  as 
I  should  be  if  I  had  seen  you  yesterday. 
To  be  happy  with  you  seems  such  an  im- 
possibility !  it  requires  a  luckier  Star  than 
mine  !  it  will  never  be.  I  enclose  a  pas- 
sage from  one  of  your  letters  which  I  want 
you  to  alter  a  little  —  I  want  (if  you  will 
have  it  so)  the  matter  express'd  less  coldly 
to  me.  If  my  health  would  bear  it,  I  could 
write  a  Poem  which  I  have  in  my  head, 
which  would  be  a  consolation  for  people  in 
such  a  situation  as  mine.  I  would  show 
some  one  in  Love  as  I  am,  with  a  person 
living  in  such  Liberty  as  you  do.  Shake- 
speare always  sums  up  matters  in  the  most 
sovereign  manner.  Hamlet's  heart  was  full 
of  such  Misery  as  mine  is  when  he  said  to 
Ophelia  '  Go  to  a  Nunnery,  go,  go  ! '  In- 
deed I  should  like  to  give  up  the  matter  at 
once  —  I  should  like  to  die.  I  am  sickened 
at  the  brute  world  which  you  are  smiling 
with.  I  hate  men,  and  women  more.  I  see 


nothing  but  thorns  for  the  future  —  wher- 
ever I  may  be  next  winter,  in  Italy  or  no- 
where, Brown  will  be  living  near  you  with 
his  indecencies.  I  see  no  prospect  of  any 
rest.  Suppose  me  in  Rome  —  well,  I  should 
there  see  you  as  in  a  magic  glass  going  to 

and  from  town  at  all  hours, 1  wish 

you  could  infuse  a  little  confidence  of  hu- 
man nature  into  my  heart.  I  cannot  mus- 
ter any  —  the  world  is  too  brutal  for  me  — 
I  am  glad  there  is  such  a  thing  as  the 
grave  —  I  am  sure  I  shall  never  have  any 
rest  till  I  get  there.  At  any  rate  I  will 
indulge  myself  by  never  seeing  any  more 
Dilke  or  Brown  or  any  of  their  Friends. 
I  wish  I  was  either  in  your  arms  full  of 
faith  or  that  a  Thunder  bolt  would  strike 


me. 


God  bless  you. 


209.      TO  FANNY  KEATS 


J.K. 


Wentworth  Place  [August  14,  1820]. 
MY  DEAR  FANNY  —  'Tis  a  long  time 
since  I  received  your  last.  An  accident  of 
an  unpleasant  nature  occurred  at  Mr.  Hunt's 
and  prevented  me  from  answering  you, 
that  is  to  say  made  me  nervous.  That  you 
may  not  suppose  it  worse  I  will  mention 
that  some  one  of  Mr.  Hunt's  household 
opened  a  Letter  of  mine  —  upon  which  I 
immediately  left  Mortimer  Terrace,  with 
the  intention  of  taking  to  Mrs.  Bentley's 
again  ;  fortunately  I  am  not  in  so  lone  a 
situation,  but  am  staying  a  short  time  with 
Mrs.  Brawne  who  lives  in  the  house  which 
was  Mrs.  Dilke's.  I  am  excessively  ner- 
vous :  a  person  I  am  not  quite  used  to  en- 
tering the  room  half  chokes  me.  'T  is  not 
yet  Consumption  I  believe,  but  it  would 
be  were  I  to  remain  in  this  climate  all  the 
Winter  :  so  I  am  thinking  of  either  voya- 
ging or  travelling  to  Italy.  Yesterday  I 
received  an  invitation  from  Mr.  Shelley,  a 
Gentleman  residing  at  Pisa,  to  spend  the 
Winter  with  him  :  if  I  go  I  must  be  away 
in  a  month  or  even  less.  I  am  glad  you 


TO  JOHN   TAYLOR 


443 


like  the  Poems,  you  must  hope  with  me 
that  time  and  health  will  produce  you  some 
more.  This  is  the  first  morning  I  have 
been  able  to  sit  to  the  paper  and  have  many 
Letters  to  write  if  I  can  manage  them. 
God  bless  you  my  dear  Sister. 

Your  affectionate  Brother  JOHN . 


201.      TO  PERCY  BYSSHE    SHELLEY 

[Wentworth  Place,  Hampstead,  August,  1820.] 
MY  DEAR  SHELLEY  —  I  am  very  much 
gratified  that  you,  in  a  foreign  country, 
and  with  a  mind  almost  over-occupied, 
should  write  to  me  in  the  strain  of  the  let- 
ter beside  me.  If  I  do  not  take  advan- 
tage of  your  invitation,  it  will  be  prevented 
by  a  circumstance  I  have  very  much  at 
heart  to  prophesy.  There  is  no  doubt  that 
an  English  winter  would  put  an  end  to 
me,  and  do  so  in  a  lingering  hateful  man- 
ner. Therefore,  I  must  either  voyage  or 
journey  to  Italy,  as  a  soldier  marches 
up  to  a  battery.  My  nerves  at  present 
are  the  worst  part  of  me,  yet  they  feel 
soothed  that,  come  what  extreme  may, 
I  shall  not  be  destined  to  remain  in  one 
spot  long  enough  to  take  a  hatred  of 
any  four  particular  bedposts.  I  am  glad 
you  take  any  pleasure  in  my  poor  poem, 
which  I  would  willingly  take  the  trou- 
ble to  unwrite,  if  possible,  did  I  care  so 
much  as  I  have  done  about  reputation.  I 
received  a  copy  of  the  Cenci,  as  from  your- 
self, from  Hunt.  There  is  only  one  part 
of  it  I  am  judge  of  —  the  poetry  and 
dramatic  effect,  which  by  many  spirits 
nowadays  is  considered  the  Mammon.  A 
modern  work,  it  is  said,  must  have  a  pur- 
pose, which  may  be  the  God.  An  artist 
must  serve  Mammon  ;  he  must  have  "  self- 
concentration  " —  selfishness,  perhaps.  You, 
I  am  sure,  will  forgive  me  for  sincerely 
remarking  that  you  might  curb  your  mag- 
nanimity, and  be  more  of  an  artist,  and 
load  every  rift  of  your  subject  with  ore. 


The  thought  of  such  discipline  must  fall 
like  cold  chains  upon  you,  who  perhaps 
never  sat  with  your  wings  furled  for  six 
months  together.  And  is  this  not  extraor- 
dinary talk  for  the  writer  of  Endymion, 
whose  mind  was  like  a  pack  of  scattered 
cards  ?  I  am  picked  up  and  sorted  to  a  pip. 
My  imagination  is  a  monastery,  and  I  am 
its  monk.  I  am  in  expectation  of  Prome- 
theus every  day.  Could  I  have  my  own 
wish  effected,  you  would  have  it  still  in 
manuscript,  or  be  but  now  putting  an  end 
to  the  second  act.  I  remember  you  advis- 
ing me  not  to  publish  my  first  blights,  on 
Hampstead  Heath.  I  am  returning  advice 
upon  your  hands.  Most  of  the  poems  in 
the  volume  I  send  you  have  been  written 
above  two  years,  and  would  never  have 
been  published  but  for  hope  of  gain  ;  so 
you  see  I  am  inclined  enough  to  take  your 
advice  now.  I  must  express  once  more 
my  deep  sense  of  your  kindness,  adding 
my  sincere  thanks  and  respects  for  Mrs. 
Shelley. 

In  the  hope  of  soon  seeing  you,  I  remain 
most  sincerely  yours  JOHN  KEATS. 


202.      TO  JOHN  TAYLOR 

Wentworth  Place  [August  14,  1820]. 
MY  DEAR  TAYLOR  —  My  chest  is  in  such 
a  nervous  state,  that  anything  extra,  such 
as  speaking  to  an  unaccustomed  person,  or 
writing  a  note,  half  suffocates  me.  This 
journey  to  Italy  wakes  me  at  daylight 
every  morning,  and  haunts  me  horribly.  I 
shall  endeavour  to  go,  though  it  be  with  the 
sensation  of  marching  up  against  a  battery. 
The  first  step  towards  it  is  to  know  the  ex- 
pense of  a  journey  and  a  year's  residence, 
which  if  you  will  ascertain  for  me,  and  let 
me  know  early,  you  will  greatly  serve  me. 
I  have  more  to  say,  but  must  desist,  for 
every  line  I  write  increases  the  tightness  of 
my  chest,  and  I  have  many  more  to  do.  I 
am  convinced  that  this  sort  of  thing  does 


444 


LETTERS   OF  JOHN   KEATS 


not  continue  for  nothing.     If  you  can  come, 
with  any  of  our  friends,  do. 
Your  sincere  friend         JOHN  KEATS. 


203.      TO  BENJAMIN  ROBERT  HAYDON 

Mrs.  Brawne's  Next  door  to  Brown's, 
Went  worth  Place,  Hampstead, 

[August]  1820. 

MY  DEAR  HAYDON  —  I  am  much  better 
this  morning  than  I  was  when  I  wrote  the 
note:  that  is  my  hopes  and  spirits  are  bet- 
ter which  are  generally  at  a  very  low  ebb 
from  such  a  protracted  illness.  I  shall  be 
here  for  a  little  time  and  at  home  all  and 
every  day.  A  journey  to  Italy  is  recom- 
mended me,  which  I  have  resolved  upon 
and  am  beginning  to  prepare  for.  Hoping 
to  see  you  shortly 

I  remain  your  affectionate  friend 

JOHN  KEATS. 


204.     TO  JOHN  TAYLOR 

Wentworth  Place  [August  15,  1820]. 

MY  DEAR  TAYLOR  — I  do  not  think  I 
mentioned  anything  of  a  Passage  to  Leg- 
horn by  Sea.  Will  you  join  that  to  your 
enquiries,  and,  if  you  can,  give  a  peep  at 
the  Berth  if  the  Vessel  is  [in]  our  river. 

Your  sincere  friend          JOHN  KEATS. 

P.  S.  —  Somehow  a  copy  of  Chapman's 
Homer,  lent  to  me  by  Haydon,  has  disap- 
peared from  my  Lodgings  —  it  has  quite 
flown  I  am  afraid,  and  Haydon  urges  the 
return  of  it  so  that  I  must  get  one  at  Long- 
man's and  send  it  to  Lisson  Grove  —  or 
you  must  —  or  as  I  have  given  you  a  job  on 
the  River  —  ask  Mistessey  [Mr.  Hessey]. 
I  had  written  a  Note  to  this  effect  to  Hes- 
sey some  time  since  but  crumpled  it  up  in 
hopes  that  the  Book  might  come  to  light. 
This  morning  Haydon  has  sent  another 
messenger.  The  copy  was  in  good  condition 
with  the  head.  Damn  all  thieves  !  Tell 
Woodhouse  I  have  not  lost  his  Blackwood. 


Testamentary  paper  enclosed  in  the  foregoing. 

My  chest  of  Books  divide  among  my 
friends. 

In  case  of  my  death  this  scrap  of  paper 
may  be  serviceable  in  your  possession. 

All  my  Estate  real  and  personal  consists 
in  the  hopes  of  the  sale  of  books  publish'd 
or  unpublish'd.  Now  I  wish  Brown  and 
you  to  be  the  first  paid  Creditors  —  the  rest 
is  in  nubibus  —  but  in  case  it  should  shower 
pay  my  Taylor  the  few  pounds  I  owe  him. 

205.      TO  CHARLES    ARMITAGE    BROWN 

[Wentworth  Place,  August  1820.] 
MY  DEAR  BROWN  —  You  may  not  have 

heard  from ,  or ,  or  in  any  way, 

that  an  attack  of  spitting  of  blood,  and  all 
its  weakening  consequences,  has  prevented 
me  from  writing  for  so  long  a  time.  I 
have  matter  now  for  a  very  long  letter,  but 
not  news  :  so  I  must  cut  everything  short. 
I  shall  make  some  confession,  which  you 
will  be  the  only  person,  for  many  reasons, 
I  shall  trust  with.  A  winter  in  England 
would,  I  have  not  a  doubt,  kill  me;  so  I  have 
resolved  to  go  to  Italy,  either  by  sea  or 
land.  Not  that  I  have  any  great  hopes  of 
that,  for,  I  think,  there  is  a  core  of  disease 
in  me  not  easy  to  pull  out.  I  shall  be 
obliged  to  set  off  in  less  than  a  month.  Do 
not,  my  dear  Brown,  tease  yourself  about 
me.  You  must  fill  up  your  time  as  well 
as  you  can,  and  as  happily.  You  must 
think  of  my  faults  as  lightly  as  you  can. 
When  I  have  health  1  will  bring  up  the 
long  arrear  of  letters  I  owe  you.  My  book 
has  had  good  success  among  the  literary 
people,  and  I  believe  has  a  moderate  sale. 
I  have  seen  very  few  people  we  know. 

has  visited  me  more  than  any  one.     I 

would  go  to and  make  some  inquiries 

after  you,  if  I  could  with  any  bearable 
sensation  ;  but  a  person  I  am  not  quite 
used  to  causes  an  oppression  on  my  chest. 
Last  week  I  received  a  letter  from  Shelley, 
at  Pisa,  of  a  very  kind  nature,  asking  me 


TO 

to  pass  the  winter  with  him.  Hunt  has  be- 
haved very  kindly  to  me.  You  shall  hear 
from  me  again  shortly. 

Your  affectionate  friend  JOHN  KEATS. 

206.      TO  FANNY  KEATS 

Wentworth  Place,  Wednesday  morning: 
[August  23,  1820]. 

MY  DEAR  FANNY  —  It  will  give  me 
great  Pleasure  to  see  you  here,  if  you  can 
contrive  it ;  though  I  confess  I  should  have 
written  instead  of  calling  upon  you  before 
I  set  out  on  my  journey,  from  the  wish  of 
avoiding  unpleasant  partings.  Meantime  I 
will  just  notice  some  parts  of  your  Letter. 
The  seal-breaking  business  is  over  blown. 
I  think  no  more  jf  it.  A  few  days  ago  I 
wrote  to  Mr.  Brown,  asking  him  to  be- 
friend me  with  his  company  to  Rome.  His 
answer  is  not  yet  come,  and  I  do  not  know 
when  it  will,  not  being  certain  how  far  he 
may  be  from  the  Post  Office  to  which  my 
communication  is  addressed.  Let  us  hope 
he  will  go  with  me.  George  certainly 
ought  to  have  written  to  you  :  his  troubles, 
anxieties  and  fatigues  are  not  quite  a  suf- 
ficient excuse.  In  the  course  of  time  you 
will  be  sure  to  find  that  this  neglect  is 
not  forgetfulness.  I  am  sorry  to  hear  you 
have  been  so  ill  and  in  such  low  spirits. 
Now  you  are  better,  keep  so.  Do  not  suf- 
fer your  Mind  to  dwell  on  unpleasant  re- 
flections —  that  sort  of  thing  has  been  the 
destruction  of  my  health.  Nothing  is  so 
bad  as  want  of  health  —  it  makes  one  envy 
scavengers  and  cinder-sifters.  There  are 
enough  real  distresses  and  evils  in  wait  for 
every  one  to  try  the  most  vigorous  health. 
Not  that  I  would  say  yours  are  not  real  — 
but  they  are  such  as  to  tempt  you  to  em- 
ploy your  imagination  on  them,  rather  than 
endeavour  to  dismiss  them  entirely.  Do 
not  diet  your  mind  with  grief,  it  destroys 
the  constitution  ;  but  let  your  chief  care  be 
of  your  health,  and  with  that  you  will  meet 
your  share  of  Pleasure  in  the  world  —  do 


445 

not  doubt  it.  If  I  return  well  from  Italy 
I  will  turn  over  a  new  leaf  for  you.  I  have 
been  improving  lately,  and  have  very  good 
hopes  of  *  turning  a  Neuk '  and  cheating 
the  consumption.  I  am  not  well  enough  to 
write  to  George  myself  —  Mr.  Haslam  will 
do  it  for  me,  to  whom  I  shall  write  to- 
day, desiring  him  to  mention  as  gently  as 
possible  your  complaint.  I  am,  my  dear 
Fanny, 

Your  affectionate  Brother  JOHN. 


207.      TO  CHARLES  ARMITAGE    BROWN 

[Wentworth  Place,  August  1820.] 
MY  DEAR  BROWN  —  I  ought  to  be  off 
at  the  end  of  this  week,  as  the  cold  winds 
begin  to  blow  towards  evening  ;  —  but  I 
will  wait  till  I  have  your  answer  to  this. 
I  am  to  be  introduced,  before  I  set  out,  to 
a  Dr.  Clark,  a  physician  settled  at  Rome, 
who  promises  to  befriend  me  in  every  way 
there.  The  sale  of  my  book  is  very  slow, 
though  it  has  been  very  highly  rated.  One 
of  the  causes,  I  understand  from  different 
quarters,  of  the  unpopularity  of  this  new 
book,  is  the  offen,  e  the  ladies  take  at  me. 
On  thinking  that  matter  over,  I  am  certain 
that  I  have  said  nothing  in  a  spirit  to  dis- 
please any  woman  I  would  care  to  please  ; 
but  still  there  is  a  tendency  to  class  women 
in  my  books  with  roses  and  sweetmeats,  — 
they  never  see  themselves  dominant.  I 
will  say  no  more,  but,  waiting  in  anxiety 
for  your  answer,  doff  m}'  hat,  and  make  a 
purse  as  long  as  I  can. 
Your  affectionate  friend 

JOHN  KEATS. 

208.   TO 

[September,  1820.]  " 

The  passport  arrived  before  we  started. 
I  don't  think  I  shall  be  long  ill.  God  bless 
you  —  farewell. 

JOHN  KEATS. 


446 


LETTERS   OF   JOHN   KEATS 


209.      TO  CHARLES  ABMITAGE  BBOWN 

Saturday,  September  28  [1820],  Maria  Crowther, 
Off  Yarmouth,  Isle  of  Wight. 

MY  DEAR  BROWN  —  The  time  has  not 
yet  come  for  a  pleasant  letter  from  me.  I 
have  delayed  writing  to  you  from  time  to 
time,  because  I  felt  how  impossible  it  was 
to  enliven  you  with  one  heartening  hope 
of  my  recovery  ;  this  morning  in  bed  the 
matter  struck  me  in  a  different  manner  ;  I 
thought  I  would  write  '  while  I  was  in  some 
liking,'  or  I  might  become  too  ill  to  write 
at  all ;  and  then  if  the  desire  to  have  writ- 
ten should  become  strong  it  would  be  a 
great  affliction  to  me.  1  have  many  more 
letters  to  write,  and  I  bless  my  stars  that  I 
have  begun,  for  time  seems  to  press,  —  this 
may  be  my  best  opportunity.  We  are  in  a 
calm,  and  I  am  easy  enough  this  morning. 
If  my  spirits  seem  too  low  you  may  in  some 
degree  impute  it  to  our  having  been  at  sea 
a  fortnight  without  making  any  way.57  I 
was  very  disappointed  at  not  meeting  you 
at  Bedhampton,  and  am  very  provoked  at 
the  thought  of  you  being  at  Chichester  to- 
day. I  should  have  delighted  in  setting  off 
for  London  for  the  sensation  merely,  —  for 
what  should  I  do  there  ?  I  could  not  leave 
my  lungs  or  stomach  or  other  worse  things 
behind  me.  I  wish  to  write  on  subjects 
that  will  not  agitate  me  much  —  there  is 
one  I  must  mention  and  have  done  with  it. 
Even  if  my  body  would  recover  of  itself, 
this  would  prevent  it.  The  very  thing 
which  I  want  to  live  most  for  will  be  a 
great  occasion  of  my  death.  I  cannot  help 
it.  Who  can  help  it  ?  Were  I  in  health 
it  would  make  me  ill,  and  how  can  I  bear  it 
in  my  state  !  I  daresay  you  will  be  able  to 
guess  on  what  subject  I  am  harping — you 
know  what  was  my  greatest  pain  during 
the  first  part  of  my  illness  at  your  house. 
I  wish  for  death  every  day  and  night  to  de- 
liver me  from  these  pains,  and  then  I  wish 
death  away,  for  death  would  destroy  even 
those  paius  which  are  better  than  nothing. 


Land  and  sea,  weakness  and  decline,  are 
great  separators,  but  death  is  the  great 
divorcer  for  ever.  When  the  pang  of  this 
thought  has  passed  through  my  mind,  I 
may  say  the  bitterness  of  death  is  passed. 
I  often  wish  for  you  that  you  might  flatter 
me  with  the  best.  1  think  without  my 
mentioning  it  for  my  sake  you  would  be  a 
friend  to  Miss  Brawne  when  I  am  dead. 
You  think  she  has  many  faults  —  but  for 
my  sake  think  she  has  not  one.  If  there  is 
anything  you  can  do  for  her  by  word  or 
deed  I  know  you  will  do  it.  I  am  in  a 
state  at  present  in  which  woman  merely  as 
woman  can  have  no  more  power  over  me 
than  stocks  and  stones,  and  yet  the  differ- 
ence of  my  sensations  with  respect  to  Miss 
Brawne  and  my  sister  is  amazing.  The 
one  seems  to  absorb  the  other  to  a  degree 
incredible.  I  seldom  think  of  my  brother 
and  sister  in  America.  The  thought  of 
leaving  Miss  Brawne  is  beyond  everything 
horrible  —  the  sense  of  darkness  coming 
over  me  —  I  eternally  see  her  figure  eter- 
nally vanishing.  Some  of  the  phrases  she 
was  in  the  habit  of  using  during  my  last 
nursing  at  Wentworth  Place  ring  in  my 
ears.  Is  there  another  life  ?  Shall  I  awake 
and  find  all  this  a  dream  ?  There  must  be, 
we  cannot  be  created  for  this  sort  of  suffer- 
ing. The  receiving  this  letter  is  to  be  one 
of  yours.  I  will  say  nothing  about  our 
friendship,  or  rather  yours  to  me,  more 
than  that,  as  you  deserve  to  escape,  you 
will  never  be  so  unhappy  as  I  am.  I  should 
think  of  —  you  in  my  last  moments.  I 
shall  endeavour  to  write  to  Miss  Brawne  if 
possible  to-day.  A  sudden  stop  to  my  life 
in  the  middle  of  one  of  these  letters  would 
be  no  bad  thing,  for  it  keeps  one  in  a  sort 
of  fever  awhile.  Though  fatigued  with  a 
letter  longer  than  any  I  have  written  for  a 
long  while,  it  would  be  better  to  go  on  for 
ever  than  awake  to  a  sense  of  contrary 
winds.  We  expect  to  put  into  Portland 
Roads  to-night.  The  captain,  the  crew, 
and  the  passengers,  are  all  ill-tempered  and 


TO    CHARLES    ARMITAGE   BROWN 


447 


weary.     I  shall  write  to  Dilke.     I  feel  as 
if  I  was  closing  my  last  letter  to  you. 
My  dear  Brown,  your  affectionate  friend 
JOHN  KEATS. 


210.      TO  MRS.    BBAWNE 

October  24  [1820],  Naples  Harbour. 
MY  DEAR  MRS.  BRAWNE  —  A  few  words 
will  tell  you  what  sort  of  a  Passage  we  had, 
and  what  situation  we  are  in,  and  few  they 
must  be  on  account  of  the  Quarantine,  our 
Letters  being  liable  to  be  opened  for  the 
purpose  of  fumigation  at  the  Health  Office. 
We  have  to  remain  in  the  vessel  ten  days 
and  are  at  present  shut  in  a  tier  of  ships. 
The  sea  air  has  been  beneficial  to  me  about 
to  as  great  an  extent  as  squally  weather 
and  bad  accommodations  and  provisions  has 
done  harm.  So  I  am  about  as  I  was.  Give 
my  Love  to  Fanny  and  tell  her,  if  I  were 
well  there  is  enough  in  this  Port  of  Naples 
to  fill  a  quire  of  Paper  —  but  it  looks  like  a 
dream  —  every  man  who  can  row  his  boat 
and  walk  and  talk  seems  a  different  being 
from  myself.  I  do  not  feel  in  the  world. 
It  has  been  unfortunate  for  me  that  one  of 
the  Passengers  is  a  young  Lady  in  a  Con- 
sumption —  her  imprudence  has  vexed  me 
very  much  —  the  knowledge  of  her  com- 
plaints —  the  flushings  in  her  face,  all  her 
bad  symptoms  have  preyed  upon  me  — 
they  would  have  done  so  had  I  been  in 
good  health.  Severn  now  is  a  very  good 
fellow  but  his  nerves  are  too  strong  to  be 
hurt  by  other  people's  illnesses  —  I  remem- 
ber poor  Rice  wore  me  in  the  same  way  in 
the  Isle  of  Wight  —  I  shall  feel  a  load  off 
me  when  the  Lady  vanishes  out  of  my  sight. 
It  is  impossible  to  describe  exactly  in  what 
state  of  health  I  am  —  at  this  moment  I  am 
suffering  from  indigestion  very  much,  which 
makes  such  stuff  of  this  Letter.  I  would 
always  wish  you  to  think  me  a  little  worse 
than  I  really  am  ;  not  being  of  a  sanguine 
disposition  I  am  likely  to  succeed.  If  I  do 
not  recover  your  regret  will  be  softened  — 
if  I  do  your  pleasure  will  be  doubled.  I 


dare  not  fix  my  Mind  upon  Fanny,  I  have 
not  dared  to  think  of  her.  The  only  com- 
fort I  have  had  that  way  has  been  in  think- 
ing for  hours  together  of  having  the  knife 
she  gave  me  put  in  a  silver-case  —  the  hair 
in  a  Locket  —  and  the  Pocket  Book  in  a 
gold  net.  Show  her  this.  I  dare  say  no 
more.  Yet  you  must  not  believe  I  am  so  ill 
as  this  Letter  may  look,  for  if  ever  there  was 
a  person  born  without  the  faculty  of  hoping 
I  am  he.  Severn  is  writing  to  Haslam,  and 
I  have  just  asked  him  to  request  Haslam 
to  send  you  his  account  of  my  health.  O 
what  an  account  I  could  give  you  of  the 
Bay  of  Naples  if  I  could  once  more  feel 
myself  a  Citizen  of  this  world  —  I  feel  a 
spirit  in  my  Brain  would  lay  it  forth  plea- 
santly —  O  what  a  misery  it  is  to  have  an 
intellect  in  splints !  My  Love  again  to 
Fanny  —  tell  Tootts  I  wish  I  could  pitch  her 
a  basket  of  grapes  —  and  tell  Sam  the  fel- 
lows catch  here  with  a  line  a  little  fish 
much  like  an  anchovy,  pull  them  up  fast. 
Remember  me  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Dilke  — 
mention  to  Brown  that  I  wrote  him  a  letter 
at  Portsmouth  which  I  did  not  send  and  am 
in  doubt  if  he  ever  will  see  it. 

My  dear  Mrs.  Brawne,  yours  sincerely 
and  affectionate  JOHN  KEATS. 

Good  bye  Fanny  !     God  bless  you. 

211.      TO   CHARLES  ARMITAGE  BROWN 

Naples,  November  1  [1820J. 
MY  DEAR  BROWN  —  Yesterday  we  were 
let  out  of  quarantine,  during  which  my 
health  suffered  more  from  bad  air  and  the 
stifled  cabin  than  it  had  done  the  whole 
voyage.  The  fresh  air  revived  me  a  little, 
and  I  hope  I  am  well  enough  this  morning 
to  write  to  you  a  short  calm  letter  ;  —  if 
that  can  be  called  one,  in  which  I  am  afraid 
to  speak  of  what  I  would  fainest  dwell  upon. 
As  I  have  gone  thus  far  into  it,  I  must  go 
on  a  little  ;  —  perhaps  it  may  relieve  the 
load  of  WRETCHEDNESS  which  presses  upon 
me.  The  persuasion  that  I  shall  see  her 
no  more  will  kill  me.  My  dear  Brown,  I 


448 


LETTERS    OF   JOHN    KEATS 


should  have  had  her  when  I  was  in  health, 
and  I  should  have  remained  well.  I  can 
bear  to  die  —  I  cannot  bear  to  leave  her. 
Oh,  God  !  God  !  God  !  Every  thing  I  have 
in  my  trunks  that  reminds  me  of  her  goes 
through  me  like  a  spear.  The  silk  lining 
she  put  in  my  travelling  cap  scalds  my 
head.  My  imagination  is  horribly  vivid 
about  her  —  I  see  her  —  I  hear  her.  There 
is  nothing  in  the  world  of  sufficient  interest 
to  divert  me  from  her  a  moment.  This 
was  the  case  when  I  was  in  England  ;  I 
cannot  recollect,  without  shuddering,  the 
time  that  I  was  a  prisoner  at  Hunt's,  and 
used  to  keep  my  eyes  fixed  on  Hampstead 
all  day.  Then  there  was  a  good  hope  of 
seeing  her  again  —  Now  !  —  O  that  I  could 
be  buried  near  where  she  lives !  I  am 
afraid  to  write  to  her  —  to  receive  a  letter 
from  her  —  to  see  her  hand- writing  would 
break  my  heart  —  even  to  hear  of  her 
anyhow,  to  see  her  name  written,  would 
be  more  than  I  can  bear.  My  dear  Brown, 
what  am  I  to  do?  Where  can  I  look 
for  consolation  or  ease?  If  I  had  any 
chance  of  recovery,  this  passion  would  kill 
me.  Indeed,  through  the  whole  of  my 
illness,  both  at  your  house  and  at  Kentish 
Town,  this  fever  has  never  ceased  wearing 
me  out.  When  you  write  to  me,  which  you 
will  do  immediately,  write  to  Rome  (poste 
restante)  — if  she  is  well  and  happy,  put  a 
mark  thus  -}-  ;  if  — — 

Remember  me  to  all.  I  will  endeavour 
to  bear  my  miseries  patiently.  A  person 
in  my  state  of  health  should  not  have  such 
miseries  to  bear.  Write  a  short  note  to  my 
sister,  saying  you  have  heard  from  me. 
Severn  is  very  well.  If  I  were  in  better 
health  I  would  urge  your  coming  to  Rome. 
I  fear  there  is  no  one  can  give  me  any  com- 
fort. Is  there  any  news  of  George  ?  O 
that  something  fortunate  had  ever  happened 
to  me  or  my  brothers  !  —  then  I  might  hope, 
—  but  despair  is  forced  upon  me  as  a  habit. 
My  dear  Brown,  for  my  sake  be  her  advo- 
cate for  ever.  I  cannot  say  a  word  about 
Naples  ;  I  do  not  feel  at  all  concerned  in 


the  thousand  novelties  around  me.  I  am 
afraid  to  write  to  her  —  I  should  like  her  to 
know  that  I  do  not  forget  her.  Oh,  Brown 
I  have  coals  of  fire  in  my  breast  —  It  sur- 
prises me  that  the  human  heart  is  capable 
of  containing  and  bearing  so  much  misery. 
Was  I  born  for  this  end  ?  God  bless  her, 
and  her  mother,  and  my  sister,  and  George, 
and  his  wife,  and  you,  and  all  ! 
Your  ever  affectionate  friend 

JOHN  KEATS. 

[Thursday,  November  2.] 
I  was  a  day  too  early  for  the  Courier. 
He  sets  out  now.  I  have  been  more  calm 
to-day,  though  in  a  half  dread  of  not  con- 
tinuing so.  I  said  nothing  of  my  health  ; 
I  know  nothing  of  it ;  you  will  hear  Severn's 
account  from  Haslam.  I  must  leave  off. 
You  bring  my  thoughts  too  near  to  Fanny. 
God  bless  you  ! 

212.      TO  THE  SAME 

Rome,  November  30,  1820. 
MY  DEAR  BROWN  —  'T  is  the  most  diffi- 
cult thing  in  the  world  to  me  to  write  a 
letter.  My  stomach  continues  so  bad,  that 
I  feel  it  worse  on  opening  any  book,  —  yet 
I  am  much  better  than  I  was  in  quarantine. 
Then  I  am  afraid  to  encounter  the  pro-ing 
and  con-ing  of  anything  interesting  to  me 
in  England.  I  have  an  habitual  feeling 
of  my  real  life  having  passed,  and  that  I 
am  leading  a  posthumous  existence.  God 
knows  how  it  would  have  been  —  but  it 
appears  to  me  —  however,  I  will  not  speak 
of  that  subject.  I  must  have  been  at  Bed- 
hampton  nearly  at  the  time  you  were  writ- 
ing to  me  from  Chichester  —  how  unfortu- 
nate —  and  to  pass  on  the  river  too  !  There 
was  my  star  predominant !  I  cannot  an- 
swer anything  in  your  letter,  which  fol- 
lowed me  from  Naples  to  Rome,  because 
I  am  afraid  to  look  it  over  again.  I  am 
so  weak  (in  mind)  that  I  cannot  bear  the 
sight  of  any  handwriting  of  a  friend  I  love 
so  much  as  I  do  you.  Yet  I  ride  the  little 


TO   CHARLES   ARMITAGE   BROWN 


449 


horse,  and  at  my  worst  even  in  quarantine, 
summoned  up  more  puns,  in  a  sort  of  de- 
speration, in  one  week  than  in  any  year  of 
my  life.  There  is  one  thought  enough  to 
kill  me  ;  I  have  been  well,  healthy,  alert, 
etc.,  walking  with  her,  and  now  —  the 
knowledge  of  contrast,  feeling  for  light  and 
shade,  all  that  information  (primitive  sense) 
necessary  for  a  poem,  are  great  enemies  to 
the  recovery  of  the  stomach.  There,  you 
rogue,  I  put  you  to  the  torture  ;  but  you 
must  bring  your  philosophy  to  bear,  as  I  do 
mine,  really,  or  how  should  I  be  able  to 
live  ?  Dr.  Clark  is  very  attentive  to  me  ;  he 
says  there  is  very  little  the  matter  with  my 
lungs,  but  my  stomach,  he  says,  is  very  bad. 
I  am  well  disappointed  in  hearing  good  news 
from  George,  for  it  runs  in  my  head  we 
shall  all  die  young.  I  have  not  written  to 
Reynolds  yet,  which  he  must  think  very 


neglectful ;  being  anxious  to  send  him  a 
good  account  of  my  health,  I  have  delayed 
it  from  week  to  week.  If  I  recover,  I  will 
do  all  in  my  power  to  correct  the  mistakes 
made  during  sickness  ;  and  if  I  should  not, 
all  my  faults  will  be  forgiven.  Severn  is 
very  well,  though  he  leads  so  dull  a  life 
with  me.  Remember  me  to  all  friends, 
and  tell  Haslam  I  should  not  have  left 
London  without  taking  leave  of  him,  but 
from  being  so  low  in  body  and  mind. 
Write  to  George  as  soon  as  you  receive 
this,  and  tell  him  how  I  am,  as  far  as  you 
can  guess  ;  and  also  a  note  to  my  sister  — 
who  walks  about  my  imagination  like  a 
ghost  —  she  is  so  like  Tom.  I  can  scarcely 
bid  you  good-bye,  even  in  a  letter.  I  al- 
ways made  an  awkward  bow. 
God  bless  you  ! 

JOHN  KEATS. 


NOTES   AND    ILLUSTRATIONS 


I.     POEMS 

Page  1.  IMITATION  OF  SPENSER. 

A  transcript  of  this  poem  in  a  copy-book  of 
Tom  Keats  contains  two  variations  from  the 
text  of  1817.  Line  12  reads, 

'  Whose  silken  fins,  and  golden  scales  light ' 

and  in  line  29  glassy  for  glossy.  The  first  read- 
ing is  required  by  the  rhythm  ;  but  the  absence 
of  the  mark  of  the  possessive  case  leads  one  to 
think  that  the  accent  mark  may  have  been  a 
hasty  reading  of  the  proper  mark  as  printed. 

Page  9.  ON  FIRST  LOOKING  INTO  CHAP- 
MAN'S HOMER. 

That  it  was  Balboa  and  not  Cortez  who  first 
saw  the  Pacific  Ocean,  an  American  school-boy 
could  have  told  Keats ;  but  it  is  not  such  slips 
as  these  that  unmake  poetry. 

Page  9.  EPISTLE  TO  GEORGE  FELTON  MA- 
THEW. 

Line  75.  The  quotation  is  from  The  Faerie 
Queene,  I.  iii.  4. 

Page  11.   To 

The  original  valentine  of  which  these  lines 
are  an  enlargement  was  as  follows :  — 

•  Hadst  thou  lived  in  days  of  old, 
Oh,  what  wonders  had  been  told 
Of  thy  lively  dimpled  face, 
And  thy  footsteps  full  of  grace : 
Of  thy  hair's  luxurious  darkling, 
Of  thine  eye's  expressive  sparkling, 
And  thy  voice's  swelling  rapture, 
Taking  hearts  a  ready  capture. 
Oh !  if  thou  hadst  breathed  then, 
Thou  hadst  made  the  Muses  ten. 
Couldst  thou  wish  for  lineage  higher 
Than  twin  sister  of  Thalia  ? 
At  least  for  ever,  ever  more 
Will  I  call  the  Graces  four.' 

Then  follow  lines  41-68,  and  the  valentine 
closes, — 

'  Ah  me !  whither  shall  I  flee  ? 
Thou  hast  metamorphosed  me. 
Do  not  let  me  sigh  and  pine, 
Prythee  be  my  valentine.' 

Page  13.  SONNET  :  To  ONE  WHO  HAS  BEEN 

LONG  IN  CITY  PENT. 

Mr.  Forman  points  out  Keats's  echo  in  the 
first  line  of  Milton's  line, 


'  As  one  who  long  in  populous  city  pent ' 

Paradise  Lost,  ix.  445. 

Page  14.  *  I  STOOD  TIP-TOE  UPON  A  LITTLH 
HILL.' 

Line  115.  Lord  Houghton  gives  this  varied 
reading  for  this  and  the  next  line :  — 

'  Floating  through  space  with  ever-living  eye, 
The  crowned  queen  of  ocean  and  the  sky.' 

Page  18.  SLEEP  AND  POETRY. 
Line  274.  Rhythm  seems  to  require  the  emen- 
dation proposed  by  Mr.  Forman  :  — 

1  Ere  the  dread  thunderbolt  could  reach  me  ?    How ' 

Page  27.  SPECIMEN  OF  AN  INDUCTION  TO 
A  POEM. 

Line  61.  Libertas  is  the  name  which  his 
friends  gave  to  Leigh  Hunt.  See  later  the 
EPISTLE  TO  CHARLES  COWDEN  CLARKE,  line 
44.  Mrs.  Clarke  confirms  the  application. 

Page  28.  CALIDORE. 

Line  40.  In  a  transcript  in  Tom  Keats's  copy- 
book, this  and  the  next  line  read  :  — 

'  Its  long  lost  grandeur.    Laburnums  grow  around 
And  bow  their  golden  honours  to  the  ground.' 

Page  33.  ADDRESSED  TO  BENJAMIN  ROBERT 
HAYDON. 

The  references  in  the  first  sonnet  are  to 
Wordsworth  and  Hunt. 

Page  35.  ON  THE  GRASSHOPPER  AND 
CRICKET. 

Leigh  Hunt's  competing  sonnet  is  as  follows : 

'  Green  little  vaulter  in  the  sunny  grass 
Catching  your  heart  up  at  the  feel  of  June, 
Sole  voice  that 's  heard  amidst  the  lazy  noon, 

When  ev'n  the  bees  lag  at  the  summoning  brass ; 

And  you,  warm  little  housekeeper,  who  class 
With  those  who  think  the  candles  come  too  soon, 
Loving  the  fire,  and  with  your  tricksome  tune 

Nick  the  glad  silent  moments  as  they  pass ; 

Oh  sweet  and  tiny  cousins,  that  belong, 
One  to  the  fields,  the  other  to  the  hearth, 

Both  have  your  sunshine ;  both  though  small  are  strong 
At  your  clear  hearts  ;  and  both  were  sent  on  earth 

To  sing  in  thoughtful  ears  this  natural  song,  — 
In  doors  and  out,  summer  and  winter,  Mirth.' 

Page  40.  LINES  ON  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN 
Sir  Charles  Dilke  has  a  manuscript  copy  of 
which  the  four  closing  lines  are :  — 


452 


NOTES   AND   ILLUSTRATIONS 


'  Souls  of  Poets  dead  and  gone, 
Are  the  winds  a  sweeter  home, 
Richer  is  uncellar'd  cavern 
Than  the  merry  Mermaid  Tavern  ? ' 

Page  41.  ROBIN  HOOD. 

Line  36.  Grene  shaw=  green  wood.  Shaw 
frequently  appears  in  the  termination  of  English 
local  names. 

Page  49.  ENDYMION. 

The  variations  here  noted  in  Book  I.  are  from 
the  manuscript  copy  supplied  to  the  printer,  and 
are  furnished  by  Mr.  Forman  in  his  edition  of 
Keats.  They  were  discarded  by  the  poet  either 
before  he  gave  his  copy  in,  or  in  his  proofs. 

Line  13. 

From  our  dark  Spirits,  and  before  us  dances 
Like  glitter  on  the  points  of  Arthur's  Lances. 

Of  these  bright  powers  are  the  Sun,  and  Moon. 

Line  24.  Telling  us  we  are  on  the  heaven's 
brink. 

Line  94.  And  so  the  coming  light  in  pomp 
receive. 

Line  153. 
From  his  right  hand  there  swung  a  milk  white 

vase 
Of  mingled  wines,  outsparkling  like  the  stars. 

Apparently  Keats  gave  the  broad  sound  to  a 
in  vase,  but  rejected  the  false  rhyme.  See  the 

lines  To ,  p.  12,  where  vase  rhymes  with 

pace. 

Line  208.  Needments.  See  the  Faery  Queene, 
Book  I.  canto  vi.,  stanza  35,  lines  55,  56, 

'and  eke  behind, 

His  scrip  did  hang,  in  which  his  needments  he  did 
bind.' 

Line  232.  It  is  interesting  to  note  that  the 
Hymn  to  Pan  beginning  here  was  recited  by 
Keats  to  Wordsworth  when  he  met  the  elder 
poet  at  Haydon's  house,  December  28,  1817. 

Lines  407-412. 

Now  happily,  there  sitting  on  the  grass 
Was  fair  Peona,  a  most  tender  Lass, 
And  his  sweet  sister ;  who,  uprising,  went 
With  stifled  sobs,  and  o'er  his  shoulder  leant. 
Putting  her  trembling  hand  against  his  cheek 
She  said :  '  My  dear  Endymion,  let  us  seek 
A   pleasant    bower  where    thou   may'st   rest 

apart, 

And  ease  in  slumber  thine  afflicted  heart : 
Come,  my  own    dearest    brother:    these    our 

friends 
Will  joy  in  thinking  thou   dost  sleep  where 

bends 


Our   freshening    River   through   yon   birchen 

grove : 
Do  come  now ! '  Could  he  gainsay  her  who 

strove, 
So  soothingly,  to  breathe  away  a  Curse  ? 

Lines  440-442. 

When  last  the  Harvesters  rich  armfuls  took. 
She  tied  a  little  bucket  to  a  Crook, 
Ran  some  swift  paces  to  a  dark  well's  side, 
And  in  a  sighing-time  return' d,  supplied 
With  spar-cold  water ;  in  which  she  did  squeeze 
A  snowy  napkin,  and  upon  her  knees 
Began  to  cherish  her  poor  Brother's  face  ; 
Damping  refreshfully  his  forehead's  space, 
His  eyes,  his  Lips :  then  in  a  cupped  shell 
She  brought    him  ruby  wine ;    then  let   him 

smell, 

Time  after  time,  a  precious  amulet, 
Which  seldom  took  she  from  its  cabinet. 
Thus  was  he  quieted  to  slumbrous  rest : 

Line  466. 

A  cheerf  uller  resignment,  and  a  smile 
For  his  fair  Sister  flowing  like  the  Nile 
Through  all  the  channels  of  her  piety, 
He  said  :  '  Dear  Maid,  may  I  this  moment  die, 
If  I  feel  not  this  thine  endearing  Love. 

Lines  470-472. 

From  woodbine  hedges  such  a  morning  feel, 
As  do  those  brighter  drops,  that  twinkling  steal 
Through  those  pressed  lashes,  from  the  blos- 
som'd  plant 

Lines  494,  495. 

More  forest- wild,  more  subtle-cadenced 
Than  can  be  told  by  mortal ;  even  wed 
The  fainting  tenors  of  a  thousand  shells 
To  a  million  whisperings  of  lily  bells  ; 
And  mingle  too  the  nightingale's  complain 
Caught    in  its  hundredth  echo ;    't  would  be 
vain  : 

Lines  539,  540. 

And  come  to  such  a  Ghost  as  I  am  now  ! 
But  listen,  Sister,  I  will  tell  thee  how. 

Lines  545,  556. 

And  in  this  spot  the  most  endowing  boon 
Of  balmy  air,  sweet  blooms,  and  coverts  fresh 
Has  been  outshed ;  yes,  all  that  could  enmesh 
Our  human  senses  —  make  us  fealty  swear 
To  gadding  Flora.     In  this  grateful  lab- 
Have  I  been  used  to  pass  my  weary  eves. 

Line  555.  Ditamy.  So  Keats  unmistakably  in 
manuscript  and  print.  The  prevailing  form  is 
dittany. 


POEMS 


453 


Line  573.  Mr.  Forman  says  that  in  the  manu- 
script something  was  written  over  this  line  in 
pencil,  but  then  rubbed  out.  He  suggests  that 
after  all  Keats  decided  to  leave  the  reader  to 
accent  the  first  syllable  of  enchantment,  and  so 
correct  the  otherwise  faulty  rhythm. 

Lines  600,  601. 

And  to  commune  with  them  once  more  I  rais'd 
My  eyes  right  upward :    but  they  were  quite 
dazed. 

An  example  of  the  freedom  of  accent  which 
Keats  uses  in  common  with  other  poets  who 
have  a  mastery  of  line. 

Line  632.  Handfuls  of  bud-stars. 

Line  646. 

But  lapp'd  and  lull'd  in  safe  deliriousness  ; 
Sleepy  with  deep  foretasting,  that  did  bless 
My  Soul  from  Madness,  't  was  such  certainty. 

Line  651. 

There  hollow  sounds  arous'd  me,  and  I  died. 

Line  665. 

Our  feet  were  soft  in  flowers.    Hurry  o'er 
O  sacrilegious  tongue  the  —  best  be  dumb  ; 
For  should  one  little  accent  from  thee  come 
On  such  a  daring  theme,  all  other  sounds 
Would  sicken  at  it,  as  would  beaten  hounds 
Scare  the  elysian  Nightingales. 

Line  722. 

This  all  ?    Yet  it  is  wonderful  —  exceeding  — 
And  yet  a  shallow  dream,  for  ever  breeding 
Tempestuous  Weather  in  that  very  Soul 
That  should  be  twice  content,  twice  smooth, 

twice  whole, 
As  is  a  double  Peach.    'T  is  sad  Alas ! 

Lines  896,  897. 

In  the  green  opening  smiling.     Gods  that  keep, 
Mercifully,  a  little  strength  of  heart 
Unkill'd  in  us  by  raving,  pang  and  smart ; 
And  do  preserve  it  like  a  lily  root, 
That,  in  another  spring,  it  may  outshoot 
From  its  wintry  prison  ;  let  this  hour  go 
Drawling  along  its  heavy  weight  of  woe 
And  leave  me   living !     'T  is  not  more  than 

need  — 

Your  veriest  help.    Ah  !  how  long  did  I  feed 
On  that  crystalline  life  of  Portraiture  ! 
How  hover'd  breathless  at  the  tender  lure  ! 
How  many  times  dimpled  the  watery  glass 
With  maddest  kisses  ;  and,  till  they  did  pass 
And  leave  the  liquid  smooth  again,  how  mad  ! 
O  't  was  as  if  the  absolute  sisters  had 
My  Life  into  the  compass  of  a  Nut 
Or  all  my  breathing  and  shut 

To  a  scanty  straw.    To  look  above  I  fear'd 


Lest  my  hot  eyeballs    might    be    burnt    and 

sear'd 
By  a  blank  naught.    It  moved  as  if  to  flee  — 

Line  964. 

Most  fondly  lipp'd.    I  kept  me  still  —  it  came 
Again  in  passionatest  syllables, 
And  thus  again  that  voice's  tender  swells : 

Not  quite  content  with  passionatest,  Keats 
tried  again  : 

'  Again  in  passionate  syllables  :  saying ' 

BOOK  II.  The  variations  in  this  and  the  suc- 
ceeding books  are  recorded  by  Mr.  Forman  and 
are  derived  from  two  sources,  —  the  first  draft 
made  by  Keats,  and  the  manuscript  afterward 
sent  by  him  to  the  printer.  Those  here  noted 
are  from  the  first  draft,  unless  otherwise  noted. 

Line  13.   Close,  i.  e.,  embrace. 

Lines  27-30.  Juliet  leans 

Amid  her  window  flowers,  sighs,  —  and  as  she 


Her  maiden  thoughts  from  their  young  firstling 

snow, 
What  sorrows  from  the  melting  whiteness  grow. 

Line  31.  The  Hero  is  that  of  Shakespeare's 
Much  Ado  about  Nothing,  the  Imogen  the  hero- 
ine in  his  Cymbeline. 

Line  32.  Pastorella.  See  Faerie  Queene,  VI. 
ii. 

Line  38.  Rest  in  the  sense  of  remaining  inac- 
tive, not  the  rest  of  restoration. 

Line  49. 
Through  wilderness,  and  brittle  mossed  oaks. 

Line  56. 
Bends  lightly  over  him,  and  he  doth  see. 

Line  83. 
Went  swift  beneath  the  flutter-loving  guide. 

Lines  93,  94. 

Endymion  all  around  the  welkin  sped 
His  anxious  sight. 

Lines  96,  97. 

His  sullen  limbs  upon  the  grass  —  what  tongue, 
What  airy  whisperer  spoilt  his  angry  rest  ? 

Line  102. 
And  carelessly  began  to  twine  and  twist. 

Lines  143,  144. 

Hja  soul  to  take  a  city  of  delight 
O  what  a  wretch  is  he :  't  is  in  his  sight. 

Line  227. 

Whose  track  the  venturous  Latmian  follows 
bold. 


454 


NOTES    AND    ILLUSTRATIONS 


Lines  253,  254. 

The  mighty  ones  who  've  shone  athwart  the  day 
Of  Greece  and  England. 

Lines  270-272. 

Himself  with  every  mystery,  until 
His  weary  legs  he  rested  on  the  sill 
Of  some  remotest  chamber,  outlet  dim. 

Lines  278-280. 

Whose  flitting  Lantern,  through  rude  nettle- 
beds, 

Cheats  us  into  a  bog,  —  cuttings  and  shreds 
Of  old  Vexations  plaited  to  a  rope 
Wherewith  to  haul  us  from  the  sight  of  hope, 
And  bind  us  to  our  earthly  baiting-ring. 

Line  285.  The  reading  r aught  is  derived  from 
the  manuscript,  though  the  first  edition  has 
caught. 

Line  363.  Originally  this  imperfect  line 
read,  — 

'  To  seas  Ionian  and  Tyrian.    Dire 
and  then  followed  a  weak  passage,  which  was 
afterward  thrown  out  and  the  better  lines  that 
follow  substituted ;  but  in  making  the  change 
Keats  apparently  overlooked  this  defect. 

Line  376  et  seq.  Compare  this  passage  with 
Spenser's  account  of  the  garden  of  Adonis  in 
Faerie  Queene,  Book  III.  canto  vi. 

Lines  396,  397. 

And  draperies  mellow-tinted  like  the  peach, 
Or  lady  peas  entwined  with  marigolds. 

Line  400.  Tenting  swerve,  as  Keats  informed  a 
friend  who  did  not  at  once  perceive  the  meaning, 
is  a  swerve  in  the  form  of  the  top  of  a  tent. 

Line  416. 
The  creeper,  blushing  deep  at  Autumn's  blush. 

Line  436. 
For  't  is  the  highest  reach  of  human  honour. 

Lines  461-464. 

Who  would  not  be  so  bound,  but,  foolish  elf, 
He  was  content  to  let  Divinity 
Slip  through  his  careless  arms  —  content  to  see 
An  unseized  heaven  sighing  at  his  feet. 

It  is  not  easy  to  see  why  Keats  should  substi- 
tute '  amorous  plea  faint  through  '  for  '  Divin- 
ity slip  through.' 

Line  482. 
Over  this  paly  corse,  the  crystal  shower. 

Lines  505,  506. 

Cupids  awake  !  or  black  and  blue  we  '11  pinch 
Your  dimpled  arms. 

Lines  526-533. 

Queen  Venus  bending  downward,  so  o'ertaken, 
So  suffering  sweet,  so  blushing  mad,  so  shaken 


That  the  wild  warmth  prob'd  the  young  sleep- 
er's heart 

Enchantingly  ;  and  with  a  sudden  start 
His  trembling  arms  were  out  in  instant  time 
To  catch  his  fainting  love.  —  0  foolish  rhyme, 
What  mighty  power  is  in  thee  that  so  often 
Thou  strivest  rugged  syllables  to  soften 
Even  to  the  telling  of  a  sweet  like  this. 
Away  !  let  them  embrace  alone !  that  kiss 
Was  far  too  rich  for  thee  to  talk  upon. 
Poor  wretch  !  mind  not  those  sobs  and  sighs  ! 

begone ! 

Speak  not  one  atom  of  thy  paltry  stuff, 
That  they  are  met  is  poetry  enough. 

Line  541.  The  finished  manuscript  reads  dies  ; 
the  first  edition  has  dyes.  The  former  seems  the 
more  poetic  reading,  and  yet  the  construction 
would  introduce  a  new  image  rather  abruptly. 

Line  578.   The  text  reads,  — 
*  Thou  shouldst  mount  up  to  with  me.    Now  adieu  ! ' 
But  the  word  '  to  '  so  destroys  both  rhythm  and 
sense,  that  I  have  ventured  to  throw  it  out  as 
an  overlooked  error. 

Line  589.  By  throwing  the  emphasis  strongly 
on  all,  the  meaning  of  the  line  is  made  evident. 

Line  628.  Keats  tried  massy,  blackening,  and 
bulging,  before  he  settled  on  jutting. 

Lines  642-657. 

About  her  majesty,  and  her  pale  brow 
With  turrets  crown'd,  which  forward  heavily 

bow 
Weighing  her  chin  to  the  breast.     Four  lions 

draw 
The  wheels  in  sluggish  time  —  each  toothed 

maw 

Shut  patiently  —  eyes  hid  in  tawny  veils  — 
Drooping  about  their  paws,  and  nervy  tails 
Cowering  their  tufted  brushes  to  the  dust. 

Lines  657-660. 
To  cloudborne  Jove  he  bent:   and  there  was 

tost 

Into  his  grasping  hands  a  silken  cord 
At  which  without  a  single  impious  word 
He  swung  upon  it  off  into  the  gloom. 

Lines  668-671. 

With  airs  delicious.     Long  he  hung  about 
Before  his  nice  enjoyment  could  pick  out 
The  resting  place :  but  at  the  last  he  swung 
Into  the  greenest  cell  of  all  —  among 
Dark  leaved  jasmine :    star  flower'd   and  be< 

strown 
With  golden  moss. 

Lines  756,  757. 

Enchantress  !  tell  me  by  this  mad  embrace, 
By  the  moist  languor  of  thy  breathing  face. 


POEMS 


455 


Lines  760,  761. 
These    tenderest  —  and   by    the    breath  —  the 

love 
The  passion  —  nectar  — Heaven ! — 'Jove  above  ! 

Line  800. 

Does  Pallas  self   not    love  ?    she    must  —  she 
must ! 

Lines  849,  850. 

But  after  the  strange  voice  is  on  the  wane  — 
And  't  is  but  guess'd  from  the  departing  sound. 

Mr.  Forman  makes  a  very  plausible  surmise 
that  Keats  had  a  half  purpose  to  go  on  with  a 
fine  description  of  this  voice  and  he  prints  the 
verses  that  follow.  They  are  not  in  the  draft, 
nor  in  any  of  the  annotated  copies  to  which  he 
refers,  but  appear  in  Leigh  Hunt's  The  Indica- 
tor for  19  January,  1820.  They  are  well  worth 
preserving,  since  if  they  are  not  by  Keats  they 
must  surely  have  been  penned  by  some  one  in 
Keats's  and  Hunt's  circle  who  had  an  extraor- 
dinary knack  at  imitation  of  Keats. 

'  Oh !  what  a  voice  is  silent.    It  was  soft 

As  mountain-echoes,  when  the  winds  aloft 

(The  gentle  winds  of  summer)  meet  in  caves  ; 

Or  when  in  sheltered  places  the  white  waves 

Are  'waken'd  into  music,  as  the  breeze 

Dimples  and  stems  the  current :  or  as  trees 

Shaking  their  green  locks  in  the  days  of  June  : 

Or  Delphic  girls  when  to  the  maiden  moon 

They  sang  harmonious  pray'rs  :  or  sounds  that  come 

(However  near)  like  a  faint  distant  hum 

Out  of  the  grass,  from  which  mysterious  birth 

We  guess  the  busy  secrets  of  the  earth. 

—  Like  the  low  voice  of  Syrinx,  when  she  ran 

Into  the  forest  from  Arcadian  Pan ; 

Or  sad  (Enone's,  when  she  pined  away 

For  Paris,  or  (and  yet  't  was  not  so  gay) 

As  Helen's  whisper  when  she  came  to  Troy, 

Half  sham'd  to  wander  with  that  blooming  boy. 

Like  air-touch'd  harps  in  flowery  casements  hung ; 

Like  unto  lovers'  ears  the  wild  woods  sung 

In  garden  bowers  at  twilight ;  like  the  sound 

Of  Zephyr  when  he  takes  his  nightly  round 

In  May,  to  see  the  roses  all  asleep : 

Or  like  the  dim  strain  which  along  the  deep 

The  sea-maid  utters  to  the  sailors'  ear, 

Telling  of  tempests,  or  of  dangers  near. 

Like  Desdemona,  who  (when  fear  was  strong 

Upon  her  soul)  chaunted  the  willow  song, 

Swan-like  before  she  perish'd  :  or  the  tone 

Of  flutes  upon  the  waters  heard  alone  : 

Like  words  that  come  upon  the  memory 

Spoken  by  friends  departed;  or  the  sigh 

A  gentle  girl  breathes  when  she  tries  to  hide 

The  love  her  eyes  betray  to  all  beside.' 

Line  880. 
A.nd  shells  outswelling  their  faint  tinged  curls. 


BOOK  III.  'Keats  said  with  much  simpli- 
city,' reports  Woodhouse,  *  "  It  will  be  easily 
seen  what  I  think  of  the  present  ministers,  by 
the  beginning  of  the  third  Book."  '  Keats  may 
have  had  Milton  and  Lycidas  in  mind  when  he 
thus  covertly  made  a  poem  serve  as  a  scourge. 

Lines  31,  32. 

In  the  several  vastnesses  of  air  and  fire : 
And  silent  as  a  corpse  upon  a  pyre. 

Lines  41.  Keats  was  wont  to  record  the  date 
when  he  finished  a  book,  but  he  wrote  against 
this  line,  *  Oxford,  Septr.  5,  [1817]  as  if  to  reg- 
ister his  oath  and  connect  the  opening  of  the 
book  with  the  immediate  time. 

Lines  56,  57. 
Thou  dost  bless  all  things  —  even  dead  things 

.  si.p 
A  midnight  life  from  thee. 

Lines  89,  90. 
Enormous  sharks  from  hiding-holes  and  f  right- 

'ning 
The    whale's   large    eyes  with    unaccustomed 

lightning. 

Lines  445-447. 

Their  music  came  to  my  o'ersweeten'd  sense 
And  then  I  felt  a  hovering  influence 
A  breathing  on  my  forehead. 

Lines  581-583.  Great  Jove, 

What  fury  of  the  three  could  harm  this  dove  ? 
Dear  youth  !  see  how  I  weep,  hear  how  I  sigh. 

Line  752. 
And  bound  it  round  Endymion :  then  stroke. 

Lines  864,  865. 

At  his  right  hand  stood  winged  Love,  elate, 
And  on  his  left  Love's  fairest  mother  sate. 

Lines  954-956. 

When  thy  bright  diadem  a  silver  gleam 
O'er  blue  dominion  starts.     Thy  finny  team 
Snorts  in  the  morning  light,  and  sends  along. 

Line  979. 

Who  is  not  full  of  heaven  when  thou    hast 
smil'd? 

BOOK  IV. 

Lines  48-54.  No  eyelids  meet 

To  twinkle  on  my  bosom  !  false  !  't  was  false. 
They  said  how  beautiful  I  was  !    Who  calls 
Me  now  divine  ?    Who  now  kneels  down  and 

dies 

Before  me  till  from  these  enslaving  eyes 
Redemption  sparkles.    Ah  me,  how  sad  I  am  ! 
Of  all  the  poisons  sent  to  make  us  mad  — 
Of  all  death's  overwhelmings.'  — Stay,  beware, 
Young  Mountaineer  1 


45  6 


NOTES    AND    ILLUSTRATIONS 


Lines  76,  77. 

Sweet  shadow,  be  distinct  awhile  and  stay 
While  I  speak  to  thee  —  trust  me  it  is  true. 

Lines  85-87. 

Of  passion  from  the  heart  —  where  love  is  not 
Only  is  solitude  —  poor  shadow !  what 
I  say  thou  hearest  not !  away,  begone 
And  leave  me,  pry  thee,  with  my  grief  alone  ! ' 
The  Latmian  lean'd  his  arm  upon  a  bough, 
A  wretched  mortal :  what  can  he  do  now  ? 
Must  he  another  Love  ?    O  impious. 

Line  94. 

While  the  fair  moon  gives  light,  or  rivers  flow 
My  adoration  of  thee  is  yet  pure 
As  infants  prattling.    How  is  this  —  why  sure 
I  have  a  triple  soul. 

Line  104. 

Shut  softly  up  alive  —  ye  harmonies 
Ye  tranced  visions  —  ye  flights  ideal : 
Nothing  are  ye  to  life  so  dainty  real. 

0  Lady,  pity  me ! 

Lines  136-138. 

Canst  thou  do  so  ?    Is  there  no  balm,  no  cure  ? 
Could  not  a  beckoning  Hebe  soon  allure 
Thee  into  Paradise  ?    What  sorrowing 
So  weighs  thee  down  ?  what  utmost  woe  could 

bring 
This  madness  ?  —  Sit  thee  down  by  me,  and 

ease 
Thine  heart  in  whispers  —  haply  by  degrees 

1  may  find  out  some  soothing  medicine.'  — 
4  Dear  Lady,'  said  Endymion,  '  I  pine  — 

I  die — the  tender  accents  thou  hast  spoken 
Have  finish' d  all  —  my  heart  is  lost  and  broken. 

Line  154. 
The  lustrous  passion  from  a  lover's  eye 

Line  157.  An  instance  of  spry  for  spray  is 
cited  by  Mr.  Fonnan  from  Sandys's  Ovid,  Book 
XL,  verses  498,  499. 

Line  247. 
Arch  infant  crews  in  mimic  of  the  coil. 

Line  341.  For  wild  the  expressive  wide  occurs 
in  the  draft  and  printer's  copy. 

Line  539.   The  rightful  tinge  of  health. 

Line  700.  After  this  line,  and  before  the  next 
these  two  lines  appear  in  the  finished  manu- 
script, — 

'  And  by  it  shalt  thou  sit  and  sing,  hey  nonny  ! 
While  doves  coo  to  thee  for  a  little  honey.' 

Lines  749-741. 

Me,  dear  Endymion,  were  I  to  weave 
My  own  imaginations  to  sweet  life 
Thou  would'st  o'ertop  them  all. 


Line  769. 
Por'd  on  its  hazel  carpet  of  shed  leaves. 

Line  774.  Hyperion  apparently  had  already 
occurred  to  Keats  as  subject  for  a  poem. 

Lines  811-813. 
Were  this  sweet  damsel  like  a   long   neck'd 

crane, 

Or  an  old  rocking  barn  owl  half  asleep, 
Some  reason  would  there  be  for  thee  to  keep 
So  dull-eyed  —  but  thou  know'st  she  's  beauti- 
ful: 

Yes,  yes !  and  thou  dost  love  her  well  —  I  '11 
pull. 

Page  110.    ISABELLA,  OK  THE  POT  OF  BASIL. 
Stanza  xxx.,  line  5.    A  manuscript  variation 
is:  — 

'What  might  have  been  too  plainly  did  she  see,' 
Stanza  xxxv.,  lines  4-7,  another  reading:  — 

*  Had  marr'd  his  glossy  hair,  that  once  could  shoot 
Bright  gold  into  the  Sun,  and  stamp'd  his  doom 

Upon  his  soiled  lips,  and  took  the  mellow  Lute 
From  his  deep  voice,  and  down  past  his  loamed  ears.' 

Stanza  xxxviii.,  the  last  two  lines  in  the  man- 
uscript read :  — 

'  Go,  shed  a  tear  upon  my  heather  bloom 
And  I  shall  turn  a  diamond  in  my  tomb.' 

Stanza  liv.,  last  line.  Lea  fits  seems  to  be  a 
word  of  Keats 's  coinage. 

Stanza  Ixiii.  Mr.  Forman  in  the  Appendix  to 
the  second  volume  of  his  edition  of  Keats  has  a 
long  note  on  the  '  sad  ditty  '  born  of  the  story  of 
Isabella,  in  which  he  shows  that  the  air  of  the 
Basil  Pot  song,  though  not  now  current,  was 
common  enough  in  mediaeval  manuscripts  and 
printed  collections  of  popular  poetry. 

Page  123.    TRANSLATION  FROM  A  SONNET 

BY  RONSARD. 

The  following  is  the  original :  — 

'  Nature,  ornant  Cassaudre,  qui  deuoit 
De  sa  douceur  forcer  les  plus  rebelles, 
La  composa  de  cent  beautez  nouuelles, 
Que  des  mille  ans  en  espargne  elle  anoit :  - 
De  tous  les  biens  qu'  Amour  au  ciel  connoit 
Comme  un  tresor  cherement  sous  ses  aileSf 
Elle  enrichit  les  graces  immortelles 
De  son  bel  ceil  qui  les  Dieux  esmouuoit.  — 
Du  Ciel  a  peine  elle  estoit  descendue 
Quand  ie  la  vey,  quand  mon  asme  esperdue 
En  dueint  folle,  et  d'un  si  poignant  trait, 
Amour  coula  ses  beautez  en  rues  veines, 
Qu'autres  plaisirs  ie  ne  sens  que  mes  peines 
Ny  autre  bien  qu'adorer  son  portrait. 

Page  123.  SONNET  :  To  A  LADY  SEEN  FOR 
A  FEW  MOMENTS  AT  VAUXHALL. 


POEMS 


457 


The  form  given  to  this  sonnet  in  Hood's  Mag- 
azine, where  it  was  published,  April,  1844,  va- 
ries slightly  from  that  in  Lord  Houghton's  pub- 
lication. The  first  line  reads :  — 

'  Life's  sea  hath  been  five  times  at  its  slow  ebb ' 
and  the  closing  lines  are  :  — 

'  Other  delights  with  thy  remembering 
And  sorrow  to  my  darling  joys  doth  bring.' 

Page  124.    FANCY. 

The  poem  as  sent  by  Keats  to  his  brother  and 
sister  was  revised  when  he  came  to  include  it 
in  his  volume,  and  the  following  are  the  more 
interesting  variations :  — 

Line  5. 
Towards  heaven  still  spread  beyond  her  — 

Line  10.   Cloys  with  kissing.   What  do  then? 
Line  24.   To  banish  vesper  from  the  sky. 

Line  33. 

All  the  faery  buds  of  May, 
On  spring  turf  or  scented  spray  ; 

Line  57. 

And  the  snake  all  winter  shrank 
Cast  its  skin  on  sunny  bank  ; 

Line  66.  This  line  was  followed  by  two  after- 
ward omitted :  — 

'  For  the  same  sleek-throated  mouse 
To  store  up  in  its  winter  house.' 

Line  68. 

Every  joy  is  spoilt  by  use ; 
Every  pleasure,  every  joy 
Not  a  mistress  but  doth  cloy. 
Where  's  the  cheek  that  doth  not  fade, 

Line  89.  The  following  lines  were  dropped 
out,  the  two  drafts  agreeing  again  at  line  90 :  — 

*  And  Jove  grew  languid.    Mistress  fair  I 
Thou  shalt  have  that  tressed  hair 
Adonis  tangled  all  for  spite  ; 
And  the  mouth  he  would  not  kiss, 
And  the  treasure  he  would  miss  ; 
And  the  hand  he  would  not  press 
And  the  warmth  he  would  distress. 

0  the  Ravishment  —  the  Bliss  I 
Fancy  has  her  where  she  is  — 
Never  fulsome,  never  new, 
There  she  steps !  and  tell  me  who 
Has  a  mistress  so  divine  ? 
Be  the  palate  ne'er  so  fine 
She  cannot  sicken.    Break  the  mesh.' 

Page  125.  ODE  :  BARDS  OF  PASSION  AND  OF 
MIRTH. 

In  the  copy  made  for  George  and  Georgiana 
Keats  are  the  following  variations :  — 


Line  19. 

But  melodious  truth  divine, 
Philosophic  numbers  fine ; 

Line  23.   Thus  ye  live  on  Earth,  and  then 

Line  30. 

To  mortals  of  the  little  week 
They  must  sojourn  with  their  cares 

Page  127.  THE  EVE  OF  ST.  AGNES. 
The  following  letter  from  Keats  to  his  pub- 
lisher, John  Taylor,  written  June  11,  1820,  is 
interesting  for  its  textual  criticism :  '  In  reading 
over  the  proof  of  St.  Agnes' s  Eve  since  I  left 
Fleet  Street,  I  was  struck  with  what  appears  to 
me  an  alteration  in  the  seventh  stanza  very 
much  for  the  worse.  The  passage  I  mean 
stands  thus  — 

"  her  maiden  eyes  incline 
Still  on  the  floor,  while  many  a  sweeping  train 
Pass  by." 

'T  was  originally  written :  — 

"  her  maiden  eyes  divine 
Fix'd  on  the  floor,  saw  many  a  sweeping  train 
Pass  by." 

My  meaning  is  quite  destroyed  in  the  alteration. 
1  do  not  use  train  for  concourse  of  passers  by, 
but  for  skirts  sweeping  along  the  floor. 

'  In  the  first  stanza  my  copy  reads,  second 
(sic)  line: — 

"  bitter  chitt  it  w»s,» 

to  avoid  the  echo  cold  in  the  second  line.' 
In  a  manuscript  version,  Lionel  was  the  name 

given  to  the  hero  instead  of  Porphyro. 
Page  134.    ODE  ON  A  GRECIAN  URN. 
Line  9.  Both  in  the  original  manuscript  and 

in  the  Annals  the  line  reads :  — 

'  What  love  ?  what  dance  ?  what  struggle  to  escape  ? ' 

Line  16.  The  Annals  reading  is :  — 
'  Thy  song,  nor  ever  bid  the  spring  adieu.' 

a  line  which  had  no  rhyme  and  very  likely  was 
transferred  by  mistake  from  the  next  stanza. 

Line  34.  The  manuscript  reads  sides  for 
flanks. 

Page  139.    LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI. 

The  text  given  is  that  of  The  Indicator,  but 
Lord  Houghton,  when  reprinting  the  poem  in 
Life,  Letters  and  Literary  Remains  used  another 
form  apparently.  The  variations  below  are 
from  Lord  Houghton's  copy. 

Line  1.  O  what  can  ail  thee,  knight-at-arms 

Line  3. 
The  sedge  has  wither'd  from  the  lake. 


458 


NOTES    AND    ILLUSTRATIONS 


Line  5.  O  what  can  ail  thee,  knight-at-arins. 
Line  19. 

'  For  sidelong  would  she  bend,  and  sing.' 

stanzas  v.  and  vi.  are  transposed. 

Line  30. 
And  there  she  wept,  and  sigh'd  full  sore. 

Line  32.   With  kisses  four. 

Line  33.  And  there  she  lulled  me  asleep 

The  version  sent  to  George  and  Georgiana 
Keats  agrees,  with  but  trifling  variation,  with 
that  given  by  Lord  Houghton. 

Page  140.  CHORUS  OF  FAERIES. 

In  Lord  Houghton's  version  this  is  called 
Song  of  Four  Fairies.  There  is  one  variation 
to  be  noted  in  line  46,  where  he  reads, 

4  Beyond  the  nimble-wheeled  quest.' 

Page  142.    ON  FAME. 

The  copy  sent  by  Keats  to  his  brother  and 
sister  shows  these  variations. 

Line  7. 

As  if  a  clear  Lake  meddling  with  itself 
Should  cloud  its  clearness  with  a  muddy  gloom. 

Line  14. 
Spoil  his  salvation  by  a  fierce  miscreed. 

Page  142.  To  SLEEP. 

In  line  8,  Lord  Houghton's  copy  reads  lulling 
for  dewy  which  is  found  in  a  manuscript  of  Sir 
Charles  Dilke.  In  another  draft  of  twelve  lines 
by  Keats  which  was  copied  in  The  Athenceum, 
October  26,  1872,  the  first  three  lines  are  the 
same  as  printed  ;  the  next  nine  are  as  follows  : 

'  As  wearisome  as  darkness  is  divine 
O  soothest  sleep,  if  so  it  please  thee  close 

My  willing  eyes  in  midst  of  this  thine  hymn 
Or  wait  the  amen,  ere  thy  poppy  throws 

Its  sweet  death  dews  o'er  every  pulse  and  limb  — 
Then  shut  the  hushed  Casket  of  my  soul 

And  turn  the  key  round  in  the  oiled  wards 
And  let  it  rest  until  the  morn  has  stole, 

Bright   tressed    from   the    grey   east's   shuddering 
bourn.' 

Page  142.  ODE  TO  PSYCHE. 

The  copy  sent  by  Keats  to  his  brother  and 
sister  varies  from  that  printed  in  the  1820  vol- 
ume in  at  least  one  important  particular,  and  it 
is  not  quite  clear  why  Keats,  when  he  substi- 
tuted roof  for  fan  in  line  10,  did  not  mend  the 
rhyme  also.  In  line  14  the  copy  in  the  letter 
reads  Syrian. 

Page  146.    LAMIA. 

The  manuscript  copy,  presumably  the  one 
given  to  the  printer,  is  in  existence,  and  Mr.  For- 
man  notes  amongst  others  the  following  read- 
ings, changed  apparently  in  the  proof. 


PART  I.  line  48. 
Cerulean  spotted,  golden-green,  and  blue. 

Line  69. 
I  had  a  silver  dream  of  thee  last  night. 

Line  78. 
And,  swiftly  as  a  mission'd  phoebean  dart. 

Line  104.   Pale  wox  her  immortality  for  woe 

Line  114. 
Warm,  tremulous,  devout,  bright-ton'd,  psalte- 

rian. 
Ravish'd,  she  lifted  up  her  Circean  head. 

Line  132. 
To  the  swoon'd  serpent,  and  with  langrous  arm. 

Line  155. 
A  deep  volcanian  yellow  took  the  place. 

Line  167. 

And  her  new  voice,  softluting  in  the  air 
Cried '  Lycius  1  gentle  Lycius,  where,  ah  where ! 

Line  185. 

AhJ  never  heard  of,  delight  never  known 
Save  of  one  happy  mortal  1  only  one,  — 
Lycius  the  happy :  for  she  was  a  Maid. 

Line  260.  A  line  was  added  to  this,  — 
'  Thou  to  Elysium  gone,  here  for  the  vultures  I.' 
Line  378.  A  royal-squared  lofty  portal  door. 

PART    II.,  line    45.    Two   lines    were    here 
added  :- 

*  Too  fond  was  I  believing,  fancy  fed 
In  high  deliriums,  and  blossoms  never  shed ! ' 

Lines  82-84. 

Became  herself  a  flame  —  't  was  worth  an  age 
Of  minor  joys  to  revel  in  such  rage. 
She  was  persuaded,  and  she  fixt  the  hour 
When  he  should  make  a  Bride  of  his  fair  Para- 
mour. 

After  the  hottest  day  comes  languidest 
The  colour'd  Eve,  half-hidden  in  the  west ; 
So  they  both   look'd,   so  spake,  if    breathed 

sound, 

That  almost  silence  is,  hath  ever  found 
Compare  with    nature's    quiet.     Which   lov'd 

most, 

Which  had  the  weakest,  strongest  heart  so  lost, 
So  ruin'd,  wreck'd,  destroy'd  :  for  certes  they 
Scarcely  could  tell         they  could  not  guess 
Whether  't  was  misery  or  happiness. 
Spells  are  but  made  to  break.    Whisper'd  the 
Youth. 

Line  174. 
Fill'd  with  light,  music,  jewels,  gold,  perfume. 


LETTERS 


459 


Line  231.  In  Tom  Taylor's  Autobiography  of 
Haydon,  vol.  i.  p.  354,  is  a  passage  which  is  a 
slight  comment  on  these  lines.  '  He  then,  in  a 
strain  of  humor  beyond  description,  abused  me 
for  putting  Newton's  head  into  my  picture.  "  A 
fellow,"  said  he,  "who  believed  nothing  unless 
it  was  as  clear  as  three  sides  of  a  triangle." 
And  then  he  and  Keats  agreed  he  had  destroyed 
all  the  beauty  of  the  rainbow,  by  reducing  it  to 
the  prismatic  colors.  It  was  impossible  to  re- 
sist him,  and  we  all  drank  Newton's  health  and 
confusion  to  mathematics.' 

Line  293. 

From  Lycius  answer'd,  as  he  sunk  supine 
Upon  the  couch  where  Lamia's  beauties  pine. 

Line  296.  '  from  every  ill 

That  youth  might  suffer  have  I  shielded  thee 
Up  to  this  very  hour,  and  shall  I  see 
Thee  married  to  a  Serpent  ?    Pray  you  mark, 
Corinthians  !    A  Serpent,  plain  and  stark  ! ' 

At  the  close  of  the  poem,  Keats  appended 
the  passage  from  Burton  which  had  given  him 
his  theme :  — 

'  Philostratos,  in  his  fourth  book,  de  Vita 
Apollonii,  hath  a  memorable  instance  in  this 
kind,  which  I  may  not  omit,  of  one  Menippus 
Lycius,  a  young  man  twenty-five  years  of  age 
that,  going  betwixt  Cenchreas  and  Corinth,  met 
such  a  phantasm  in  the  habit  of  a  fair  gentle- 
woman, which,  taking  him  by  the  hand,  carried 
him  home  to  her  house,  in  the  suburbs  of  Cor- 
inth, and  told  him  she  was  a  Phoenician  by 
birth,  and  if  he  would  tarry  with  her,  he  should 
hear  her  sing  and  play,  and  drink  such  wine  as 
never  any  drank,  and  no  man  should  molest 
him  ;  but  she,  being  fair  and  lovely,  would  die 
with  him,  that  was  fair  and  lovely  to  behold. 
The  young  man,  a  philosopher,  otherwise  staid 
and  discreet,  able  to  moderate  hio  passions, 
though  not  this  of  love,  tarried  with  her  awhile 
to  his  great  content,  and  at  last  married  her,  to 
whose  wedding,  amongst  other  guests,  came 
Apollonius ;  who,  by  some  probable  conjec- 
tures, found  her  out  to  be  a  serpent,  a  lamia ; 
and  that  all  her  furniture  was,  like  Tantalus' 
gold,  described  by  Homer,  no  substance,  but 
mere  illusions.  When  she  saw  herself  descried, 
she  wept,  and  desired  Apollonius  to  be  silent, 
but  he  would  not  be  moved,  and  thereupon  she, 
plate,  house,  and  all  that  was  in  it,  vanished  in 
an  instant ;  many  thousands  took  notice  of  this 
fact,  for  it  was  done  in  the  midst  of  Greece.'  — 
Burton's  Anatomy  of  Melancholy,  Part  III.,  Sect. 
2,  Memb.  I.  Subs.  I. 

Page  199.    HYPERION. 


Since  the  introductory  note  to  this  poem  was 
printed,  a  letter  from  Canon  Ainger  has  ap- 
peared in  The  Athenceum  (26  August,  1899),  in 
which  he  states  that  he  has  seen  a  copy  of  the 
1820  volume,  given  by  Keats  to  a  Hampstead 
friend  and  neighbor,  and  bearing  on  the  title 
page  *  with  J.  Keats's  compliments.'  He  adds, 
*  Keats  has  with  his  own  hand  scored  out,  in 
strong  ink  lines,  the  publisher's  preface.  ...  At 
the  head  of  this  preface  Keats  has  written,  "I 
had  no  part  in  this;  I  was  ill  at  the  time." 
And  after  the  concluding  sentence  about  Endy- 
mion,  which  he  has  carefully  bracketed  off,  he 
has  written,  "  This  is  a  lie  1 "  '  This  is  inter- 
esting testimony,  especially  if  Canon  Ainger' s 
opinion  as  to  this  being  in  Keats's  handwriting 
is  correct. 

Page  232.  THE  LAST  SONNET. 

A  manuscript  reading  of  the  last  line  is :  — 

'  Half -passionless,  and  so  swoon  on  to  death.' 


II.    LETTERS 

1.  Page  255.     '  God  'ield  you.'    Mr.  Colvin 
calls  attention  to  the  frequency  with  which 
Keats,  in  his  early  letters,  falls  into  Shake- 
spearian phrases. 

2.  Page  255.     '  Endymion.'    The  reference 
is  not  to  the  poem  of  that  name,  but  to  the 
verses  beginning  '  I  stood  tiptoe  upon  a  little 
hill.'    See  p.  14. 

3.  Page  255.     'Your  kindness.'     Reynolds 
had  addressed  Keats  in  a  sonnet  as  follows  :  — 

'  Thy  thoughts,  dear  Keats,  are  like  fresh  gathered 
leaves, 

Or  white  flowers  pluck'd  from  some  sweet  lily  bed  ; 

They  set  the  heart  a-breathing,  and  they  shed 
Tho  glow  of  meadows,  mornings,  and  spring  eves 
O'er  the  excited  soul.  —  Thy  genius  weaves 

Songs  that  shall  make  the  age  be  nature-led, 

And  win  that  coronal  for  thy  young  head 
Which  time's  strange  hand  of  freshness  ne'er  bereaves. 
Go  on  !  and  keep  thee  to  thine  own  green  way, 

Singing  in  that  same  key  which  Chaucer  sung ; 
Be  thou  companion  of  the  summer  day, 

Roaming  the  fields  and  older  woods  among  : 
So  shall  thy  Muse  be  ever  in  her  May, 

And  thy  luxuriant  spirit  ever  young.' 

4.  Page  257.     'Aunt  Dinah's  counterpane.' 
The  letter  was  crossed,  after  a  fashion  more 
common  in  days  of  heavy  postage  than  now. 

5.  Page  259.     Hazlitt  had  reviewed  in  The 
Examiner  for  May  4,  1817,  Southey's  Letter  to 
William  Smith  Esq.,  M.  P.,  and  had  been  ex- 


460 


NOTES   AND    ILLUSTRATIONS 


6.  Page  259.    *  The  Nymphs.'    A  mythologi- 
cal poem,  on  which  Hunt  was  at  this  time  en- 
gaged. 

7.  Page  259.     '  Does  Shelley  go  on  telling 
strange  stories  of  the  death  of  kings  ?  '     Gilfil- 
lan,  in  his  Gallery  of  Literary  Portraits,  tells  the 
story  of  Shelley  amusing  himself  and  Hunt, 
when  they  were  travelling  in  a  stage  coach,  and 
startling  an  old  lady  travelling  with  them,  by 
suddenly  crying  out  to  Hunt,  '  For  God's  sake, 
let  us  sit  upon  the  ground  and  tell  sad  stories 
of  the  death  of  kings.'    King  Richard  II.,  iii.  2. 

8.  Page  261.    '  I  long  to  see  Wordsworth's  as 
well  as  to  have  mine  in.'    Hay  don  was  painting 
his  Christ's  Entry  into  Jerusalem,  and  was  in- 
troducing likenesses  of  his  friends  into  the  pic- 
ture. 

9.  Page  262.    *  Bertrand,'  i.  e.,  General  Ber- 
trand,  who  was  one  of  Bonaparte's  petty  court 
at  St.  Helena. 

10.  Page  263.      Jane    Reynolds    afterward 
married  Thomas  Hood.     The  Reynolds  family 
lived  in  Little  Britain,  so  quaintly  sketched  by 
Washington  Irving. 

11.  Page  263.  '  Hampton,'  *.  e.,  Little  Hamp- 
ton, a  quiet  watering  place  at  the  mouth  of  the 
Arun,  on  the  south  coast  of  Sussex,  a  little 
more  than  halfway  between  London  and  Ports- 
mouth. 

12.  Page    265.      'Miss    Taylor's    essays    in 
Rhyme.'    Fanny  Keats  was  fourteen  years  old 
at  this  time,  and  the  Norwich  ladies,  Ann  and 
Jane  Taylor,  were  in  the  height  of  their  popu- 
larity with  young  readers. 

13.  Page  266.      'Tell  Dilke.'     The  Dilkes 
were  friends  living  in  Hampstead  whom  Rey- 
nolds had  introduced  to  Keats.    Charles  Went- 
worth  Dilke  was  at  the  time  a  clerk  in  the 
Navy  Pay-Office,  and  a  disciple  of  Godwin  and 
warm  friend  of  Hunt.      Later  he  became  a 
man  of  great  consequence  in  the  literary  world 
as  editor  and  chief  owner  of  The  Athceneum. 
The  W.  D.  mentioned  below  is  William  Dilke, 
a  younger  brother,  who  had  served  in  the  Com- 
missariat department.     He  was  at  this  time 
about  forty-two  years  old. 

14.  Page  268.    '  Northern  Poet.'   See  Words- 
worth's Personal  Talk,  beginning  — 

'  I  am  not  one  who  much  or  oft  delight 
To  season  my  fireside  with  personal  talk.' 

15.  Page  269.    Hazlitt  had  just  collected  and 
published  his  The  Bound  Table,  which  he  first 
printed  in  The  Examiner. 

16.  Page  271.     '  You  and  Gleig.'    Mr.  Col- 
vin  makes  this  note :  '  G.  R.  Gleig,  son  of  the 
Bishop  of  Stirling :  born  1796,  died  1888 :  served 


in  the  Peninsular  War  and  afterwards  took  or- 
ders. Chaplain-General  to  the  Forces  from 
1846  to  1875 :  author  of  the  Subaltern  and  many 
military  tales  and  histories.' 

17.  Page  271.      'The  two  R's.'     Reynolds 
and  Rice. 

18.  Page  274.     *  The  little  Song.'    See  head- 
note  to  '  Lines,'  p.  37.     The  allusion  just  below 
in  Adam's  waking  is  to  Paradise  Lost,  Book 
VIII.,  lines.  478-484. 

19.  Page    275.      'Christie.'      Jonathan    H. 
Christie,  a  college  friend  of  Lockhart,  who  took 
up  Lockhart's  quarrel  with  John  Scott,  fought 
the  latter  in  a  duel  and  killed  him. 

20.  Page  277.     'Wells.'     Charles  J.  Wells,  a 
schoolmate  of  Tom  Keats.    See  the  Sonnet, 
p.  13,  '  To  a  Friend  who  sent  me  some  Roses.' 
The  family  of  Wells    lived    in    Featherstone 
Buildings,  from  which  Letter  24  was  written. 

21.  Page  277.     'Shelley's  poem.'     Laon  and 
Cynthia,  renamed  The  Revolt  of  Islam. 

22.  Page  277.     The  tragedy  was  Retribution, 
or    the    Chieftain's  Daughter;  the  pantomime 
was  Don  Giovanni.     The  articles,  as  the  post- 
script to  this  letter  shows,  did  appear  in  The 
Champion. 

23.  Page  278.     '  We  played  a  concert.'    A 
burlesque    affair.      Keats,    his    brothers    and 
friends,  were  wont  to  entertain  themselves  with 
imitating  musical  instruments,  vocally. 

24.  Page  278.     Haydon's  Autobiography,  I. 
384,  gives  a  more  detailed  account  of  this  sup- 
per party.    Ritchie,  here  referred  to,  Mr.  Col- 
vin  tells  us,  was  Joseph  Ritchie,  who  '  started 
on  a  Government  mission  to  Fezzan  in  Septem- 
ber, 1818,  and  died  at  Morzouk  the  following 
November.    An  account  of  the  expedition  was 
published  by  his  travelling  companion,  Captain 
G.  F.  Lyon,  R.  N.'    Ritchie  wrote  a  poetical 
Farewell  to  England,  which  was  printed  by  A. 
A.  Watts  in  his  Poetical  Album. 

25.  Page  278.     '  Medal  of  the  Princess,'  i.  e., 
Princess  Charlotte,  who  died  November  6, 1817. 

26.  Page  278.     '  Bob  Harris,'  the  manager  of 
Covent  Garden  Theatre. 

27.  Page  279.     '  Miss  Kent's.'     Mr.  Forman 
notes  that  the  article  was  not  by  Miss  Bessy 
Kent,  Hunt's  sister-in-law,  but  by  Shelley,  who 
used  the  initials  E.  K.  for  '  Elfin  Knight.' 

28.  Page  279.     'Mr.  Abbey.'    Mr.  Richard 
Abbey,  a  tea-merchant,  one  of  the  guardians  of 
the  Keats  family.     See  above,  p.  xv. 

29.  Page  283.    See  a  lively  refutation  of  this 
conjecture  of  Hunt's,  and  a  general  statement 
of  the  relations  of  the  '  Cockney  school  '  with 
the  Edinburgh  critics  in  Lang's  The  Life  and 
Letters  of  John  Gibson  Lockhart,  I.  150-155. 


LETTERS 


461 


30.  Page  285.     '  As  the  old  song  says.'    Mr. 
Forman  here  quotes  the  'old  song,'  which  is 
'  Sharing  Eve's  Apple,'  given  in  the  Appendix, 
p.  248,  on  Mr.  Forman's  authority  as  by  Keats. 
Mr.   Colvin  merely  indicates  a  break.     It  is 
quite  possible  that  Keats  in  the  jesting  mood 
with  which  his  letter  opens,  wrote  these  non- 
sense lines  and,  in  Scott's  fashion,  palmed  them 
off  as  an  '  old  song.' 

31.  Page  285.     '  For  the  sum  of  twopence.' 
See  the  head-note  to  '  Robin  Hood,'  p.  41. 

32.  Page  287.  *  Mr.  Robinson.'  Henry  Crabbe 
Robinson.     This  delightful  diarist  does  not  re- 
cord this  visit,  nor  in  the  two  or  three  refer- 
ences to  Keats  speak  as  if  he  knew  him.     In  an 
entry  for  December  8,  1820,  he  records  reading 
some  of  Keats's  poems,  and  adds  :  '  There  are  a 
force,  wildness,  and  originality  in  the  works  of 
this  young  poet  which,  if  his  perilous  journey 
to  Italy  does  not  destroy  him,  promise  to  place 
him  at  the  head  of  the  next  generation  of  poets.' 

33.  Page  293.     Haydon  had  written  with  en- 
thusiasm about  a  seal  with  a  true  lover's  knot 
and  the  initials  W.  S.,  found  in  a  field  at  Strat- 
ford-on-Avon. 

34.  Page  293.     'Dentatus'  was  the  subject 
of  a  picture  by  Haydon. 

35.  Page  295.     '  Claude's  Enchanted  Castle.' 
Mr.  Colvin  has  this  interesting  note :  '  The  fa- 
mous picture  now  belonging  to  Lady  Wantage, 
and  exhibited  at  Burlington  House  in  1888. 
Whether  Keats  ever  saw  the  original  is  doubt- 
ful (it  was  not  shown  at  the  British  Institution 
in  his  time),  but  he  must  have  been  familiar 
with  the  subject  as  engraved  by  Vivares  and 
Woollett,  and  its  suggestive  power  worked  in 
his  mind  until  it  yielded  at  last  the  distilled 
poetic  essence  of  the  "  magic  casement  "  pas- 
sage in  the  "  Ode  to  a  Nightingale."     It  is  in- 
teresting to  note  the  theme  of  the  Grecian  Urn 
ode  coming  in  also  amidst  the  "  unconnected 
subject  and  careless   verse"    of  this  rhymed 
epistle.' 

36.  Page  296.     'Posthumous  works.'    Hay- 
don had  written  Keats  :  '  When  I  die  I  '11  have 
Shakespeare  placed  on  my  heart,  with  Homer 
in  my  right  hand  and  Ariosto  in  the  other, 
Dante  at  my  head,  Tasso  at  my  feet,  and  Cor- 
neille  under  my — .' 

37.  Page  300.     '  Worsted  stockings.'     Keats 
hints  at  the  neighborhood  of  the  children  of  the 
Postman  Bentley,  at  whose  house  in  Wellwalk 
he  lodged. 

38.  Page  306.     'The  opposite,'  f.  e.,  a  leaf 
with  the  name  and  '  from  the  Author.' 

39.  Page  315.    '  A  scrap  of  paper.'  The  book 
was  a  copy  of  '  Endymion,'  and  Keats  had  left 


in  London  a  scrap  of  paper  bearing  '  from  the 
Author,'  to  be  pasted  in. 

40.  Page  316.     '  The  Swan  and  two  necks ' 
was  the  name  of  the  coach  office  in  Lad  Lane, 
London. 

41.  Page  320.     *  3  little  volumes.'    The  sev- 
eral references  to  these  books  indicate  Gary's 
Translation  of  Dante,  which  was  so  published 
by  Taylor  and  Hessey  and  advertised  on  the 
fly-leaf  of  '  Endymion.' 

42.  Page  328.      'A  Woman.'      Mr.   Colvin 
notes:  'Miss  Charlotte  Cox,  an  East  Indian 
cousin  of  the   Reynoldses  —  the  "Channian" 
described  more  fully '  in  Letter  74. 

43.  Page  328.     '  Slip-shod  Endymion.'    John 
Scott    wrote    of    the    poem    in   The    Morning 
Chronicle,  October  3,   1818:  'That   there  are 
also  many,  very  many  passages  indicating  both 
haste  and  carelessness  I  will  not  deny ;  nay,  I 
will  go  further,  and  assert  that  a  real  friend  of 
the  author  would  have  dissuaded  him   from 
immediate  publication.' 

44.  Page  338.     '  I  have  scarce  any  hopes  of 
him.'    Thomas  Keats  died  a  few  hours  later, 
on  the  same  day  this  letter  was  written.    As 
noted  in  the  biographical  sketch,  Keats  now  re- 
moved to  Went  worth  Place. 

45.  Page 339.    'This  thin  paper.'   Mr.  Colvin 
notes  :  '  A  paper  of  the  largest  folio  size,  used 
by  Keats  in  this  letter  only,  and  containing 
some  eight  hundred  words  a  page  of  his  writing.' 

46.  Page  340.    '  Her  daughter  senior.'   Fanny 
Brawne,  of  whom  this  is  the  first  mention  in 
the  letters. 

47.  Page  354.     '  Henrietta  Street,'  the  resi- 
dence of  Mrs.  Wylie. 

48.  Page  355.     '  The  silk  tassels,'  Mr.  Colvin 
explains,  were  the  gift  of  Georgiaua  Keats. 

49.  Page  366.  '  Am  I  all  wound  with  Browns.' 
Mr.  Colvin  reminds  the  reader  of  the  origin  of 
the  phrase  in  Caliban's  mouth  : 

'  Sometimes  am  I 

All  wound  with  adders,  who  with  cloven  tongues 
Do  hiss  me  into  madness.' 

The  little  Brown  boys,  brothers  of  Charles 
Armitage  Brown,  are  the  '  Boys  '  referred  to 
above,  p.  364. 

50.  Page  368.     This  discreet  notice  of  Rey- 
nolds's  parody  appeared  with  some  alteration 
in  The  Examiner,  April  26, 1819. 

51.  Page  378.    James  Elmes  was  the  editor 
of  Annals  of  the  Fine  Arts,  in  which  first  ap- 
peared the  '  Ode  to  a  Nightingale.'    See  p.  144. 

52.  Page  383.     '  An  oriental  tale  of  a  very 
beautiful  color.'     Mr.  Forman,  on  the  authority 
of  Dr.  Reinhold  Kohler,  Librarian  of  the  Grand- 


462 


NOTES   AND   ILLUSTRATIONS 


ducal  Library  of  Weimar,  identifies  the  story, 
which  is  a  variant  of  the  Third  Calender's  story 
in  The  Arabian  Nights,  as  the  *  Histoire  de  la 
Corbeille,'  in  the  Nouveaux  Contes  Orientaux 
of  the  Comte  de  Caylus. 

53.  Page  399.  *  Hunt's  triumphal  entry  into 
London.'  Mr.  Forman  makes  the  following 
note  on  this  passage  :  '  Henry  Hunt,  of  Man- 
chester Massacre  fame,  ended  an  imprisonment 
of  two  years  and  a  half  on  the  30th  of  October, 
1822,  and  made  an  "  entry  into  London  "  on  the 
llth  of  November,  1822  ;  but  the  trial  of  which 
his  imprisonment  was  the  issue  had  not  taken 
place  till  the  spring  of  1820;  and  the  entry 
alluded  to  by  Keats  was  one  which  took  place 
between  the  massacre  and  the  trial.' 


54.  Page  413.     '  From  Sr.  G.  B.'s,  Lord  Ms.' 
Sir  George  Beaumonts  and  Lord  Musgraves. 

55.  Page  416.     *  The  Cave  of  despair.'  Spen- 
ser's Cave  of  Despair  was  the  subject  of  the 
picture  (see  Letter  141)  with  which  Severn  won 
the  Royal  Academy  premium. 

56.  Page  438.     '  Lucy  Vaughan  Lloyd.'    The 
name  under  which  Keats  proposed  to  publish 
4  The  Cap  and  Bells.'    See  p.  216. 

57.  Page  446.     '  Without  making  any  way.' 
Mr.   Colvin  appends  this  note  :    '  The  Maria 
Crowther  had  in  fact  sailed  from  London,  Sep- 
tember   18  :    contrary  winds  holding   her  in 
the  Channel,  Keats  had  landed  at  Portsmouth 
for  a  night's  visit  to  the  Snooks  of  Bedhamp- 

tOE.' 


BIBLIOGRAPHICAL   LIST   OF   KEATS'S   POEMS 


IN  this  list  the  contents  are  given  in  their 
order  of  the  three  volumes  published  by  Keats. 
Then  follow  the  poems  gathered  by  Lord 
Houghton,  and  those  printed  for  the  first  time 
in  the  Letters,  collected  by  Mr.  Forman,  Mr. 
Colvin,  and  Mr.  Speed.  The  few  instances  of 
independent  periodical  publication  of  poems, 
and  of  those  gathered  by  Mr.  Forman,  are 
noted  in  the  head-notes  to  those  poems. 

I.    POEMS,  |  BY  |  JOHN  KEATS.  I  '  WHAT  MOKE 

FELICITY   CAN    FALL    TO    CREATURE,  |  THAN 
TO      ENJOY     DELIGHT       WITH     LIBERTY  '  | 

Fate    of  the    Butterfly.  —  SPENSER.  |  LON- 
DON: |  PRINTED     FOR     C.     &     J.     OLLIER, 

3  WELBECK  STREET,  |  CAVENDISH  SQUARE. 
|  1817. 

Dedication.     To  Leigh  Hunt,  esq. 
4 1  stood  tip-toe  upon  a  little  hill.' 
Specimen  of  an  Induction  to  a  Poem. 
Calidore.    A  Fragment. 
To  Some  Ladies. 
On  receiving  a  curious  shell,  and  a  Copy  of 

Verses  from  the  same  Ladies. 

To .  [Hadst  thou  liv'd  in  days  of  old]. 

To  Hope. 

Imitation  of  Spenser. 

'  Woman  !  when  I  behold  thee  flippant,  vain,' 

Epistles : 

To  George  Felton  Mathew. 

To  my  Brother  George. 

To  Charles  Cowden  Clarke. 
Sonnets : 

I.   To  my  Brother  George. 

II.  To ['  Had  I  a  man's  fair  form,  then 

might  my  sighs.'] 

III.  Written   on    the  day  that  Mr.   Leigh 

Hunt  left  prison. 

IV.  'How  many  bards  gild  the  lapses  of 

time.' 

V.   To  a  Friend  who  sent  me  some  roses. 
VI.  ToG.  A.  W. 

VII.  '  0  Solitude,  if  I  must  with  thee  dwell.' 
VIII.   To  my  Brothers. 
IX.   '  Keen,  fitful  gusts  are  whisp'ring  here 

and  there.' 

X.   '  To  one  who  has   been  long   in  city 
pent.' 


XI.   On    first     Looking    into     Chapman's 

Homer. 

XII.   On  leaving  some  friends  at  an  early 
hour. 

XIII.  Addressed  to  Haydon. 

XIV.  Addressed  to  the  same. 

XV.   On  the  Grasshopper  and  Cricket. 
XVI.   ToKosciusko. 
XVII.   '  Happy  is  England.' 
Sleep  and  Poetry. 

II.  ENDYMION:  |  A  POETIC    ROMANCE.  |  BY 
JOHN   KEATS.  |  '  THE     STRETCHED   METRE 

OF  AN  ANTIQUE  SONG.'  |  LONDON  :  |  PRINTED 

FOR    TAYLOR    AND    HESSEY,  1 93,    FLEET 
STREET,  |  1818. 

III.  LAMIA  |  ISABELLA,  |  THE    EVE    OF   ST. 
AGNES,  I  AND   OTHER    POEMS.  |  BY    JOHN 
KEATS,  |  AUTHOR  OF  ENDYMION.  |  LONDON  : 

I  PRINTED  FOR  TAYLOR   AND   HESSEY,  | 
FLEET  STREET  |  1820. 
Lamia. 

Isabella ;  or  the  Pot  of  Basil. 
The  Eve  of  St.  Agnes. 
Ode  to  a  Nightingale. 
Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn. 
Ode  to  Psyche. 
Fancy. 

Ode  ['  Bards  of  Passion  and  of  Mirth']. 
Lines  on  the  Mermaid  Tavern. 
Robin  Hood.    To  a  Friend. 
To  Autumn. 
Ode  on  Melancholy. 
Hyperion  :  a  Fragment. 

IV.  LIFE,    LETTERS    AND    LITERARY    RE- 
MAINS OF  JOHN  KEATS.    EDITED  BY  RICH- 
ARD     MONCKTON       MlLNES      [AFTERWARD 

LORD  HOUGHTON]. 

[The  following  were  incorporated  in  the  bio- 
graphical  portion.] 
To  Spenser. 
To  Chatterton. 
To  Byron. 

On  seeing  the  Elgin  Marbles. 
To  Haydon,  with  the  above. 
On  seeing  a  lock  of  Milton's  Hair. 
A  Draught  of  Sunshine. 
What  the  Thrush  said. 


464 


BIBLIOGRAPHICAL   LIST   OF   KEATS'S   POEMS 


On  sitting  down  to  read  King  Lear  once  again. 

To  the  Nile. 

Epistle  to  John  Hamilton  Reynolds. 

Fragment  of  an  Ode  to  Maia. 

On  visiting  the  Tomb  of  Burns. 

Written  in  the  Cottage  where  Burns  was  born. 

Meg  Merrilies. 

On  Ailsa  Rock. 

Lines  written  in  the  Highlands  after  a  visit  to 

Burns's  cottage. 
At  Fingal's  Cave. 
Written  upon  the  top  of  Ben  Nevis. 
A  Prophecy :  To  George  Keats  in  America. 
Translation  from  a  Sonnet  of  Ronsard. 
Spenserian  stanzas  on  Charles  Armitage  Brown. 
Spenserian  stanza  written  at  the  end  of  Canto 

II.  Book  V.  of  The  Faerie  Queene. 
Fragments : 

*  Where  's  the  Poet  ?  show  him !  show  him ! ' 

Modern  Love. 

The  Castle  Builder. 

'  Welcome  joy,  and  welcome  sorrow.' 

Ode  to  Fanny. 

[The  following  were  grouped  in  the  section 
Literary  Remains] :  — 

Otho  the  Great. 

King  Stephen. 

The  Cap  and  Bells. 

Ode  to  Apollo. 

Hymn  to  Apollo. 

On :  '  Think  not  of  it,  sweet  one,  so.' 

Lines:  '  Unfelt,  unheard,  unseen.' 

Song  :  '  Hush,  hush !  tread  softly.' 

Song:   'I  had  a  dove  and  the  sweet  dove 
died.' 

Faery  song :    *  Shed  no  tear !     O,   shed  no 
tear.' 

Song :  '  Spirit  here  that  reignest.' 

Faery  song :  '  Ah  !  woe  is  me.' 

Extracts  from  an  Opera. 

La  Belle  Dame  sans  Merci. 

Song  of  Four  Faeries. 

Ode  on  Indolence. 


The  Eve  of  St.  Mark. 

To  Fanny :  '  Physician  Nature  !  let  my  spirit 

blood.' 

Stanzas  :  '  In  a  drear-nighted  December.' 
Sonnets : 

4  Oh,  how  I  love  on  a  fair  summer's  eve-' 
'To  a  Young  Lady  who  sent  me  a  laurel 

crown.' 
4  After   dark  vapours    have    oppress'd    our 

plains.' 
Written  on  the  Blank  space  at  the  end  of 

Chaucer's  Tale  of  The  Floure  and  the  Lefe. 
On  the  Sea. 

On  Leigh  Hunt's  poem  The  Story  of  Rimini. 
4  When  I  have  fears  that  I  may  cease  to  be-' 
To  Homer. 

Written  in  answer  to  a  sonnet. 
To  J.  H.  Reynolds. 
To :  *  Time's  sea  hath  been  five  years 

at  its  slow  ebb.' 
To  Sleep. 
On  Fame. 
Another  on  Fame. 
*  Why  did  I  laugh  to-night  ?  ' 
A  Dream,  after  reading  Dante's  Episode  of 

Paolo  and  Francesca. 
4  If  by  dull  rhymes    our  English  must  be 

chain' d.' 

4  The  day  is  gone,  and  all  its  sweets  are  gone.' 
'  I  cry  your  mercy  —  pity  —  love  !  —  aye,  love.' 
The  Last  Sonnet. 

V.  THE  LETTERS  OF  JOHS  KEATS  : 
Acrostic :  Georgiana  Augusta  Wylie. 
At  Teignmouth. 
Mrs.  Cameron  and  Ben  Nevis. 
The  Devon  Maid. 
A  Little  Extempore. 
The  Gadfly. 
The  Human  Seasons. 
To  Thomas  Keats. 
A  Party  of  Lovers. 
A  Song  about  Myself. 
Two  or  Three  Posies. 


INDEX    OF   FIRST   LINES 


AFTER  dark  vapours  have  oppress 'd  our  plains, 

36. 

Ah  !  ken  ye  what  I  met  the  day,  245. 
Ah,  what  can  ail  thee,  wretched  wight,  139. 
Ah  !  woe  is  me  !  poor  silver  wing  !  141. 
All  gentle  folks  who  owe  a  grudge,  245. 
And  what  is  love  ?    It  is  a  doll  dress'd  up,  238. 
As  from  the  darkening  gloom  a  silver  dove,  12. 
As  Hermes  once  took  to  his  feathers  light,  138. 
As  late  I  rambled  in  the  happy  fields,  13. 
Asleep !    O  sleep  a  little  while,  white  pearl ! 

240. 
A  thing  of  beauty  is  a  joy  forever,  49. 

Bards  of  Passion  and  of  Mirth,  125. 

Blue  !  'T  is  the  life  of  heaven,—  the  domain,  43. 

Bright  star,  would  I  were  stedfast  as  thou  art, 

232. 

Brother  belov'd,  if  health  shall  smile  again,  252. 
Byron  !  how  sweetly  sad  thy  melody  !  2. 

Can  death  be  sleep,  when  life  is  but  a  dream,  1. 
Cat !  who  has[t]  pass'd  thy  grand  climacteric, 

252. 

Chief  of  organic  numbers,  39. 
Come  hither  all  sweet  maidens  soberly,  38. 

Dear  Reynolds  !  as  last  night  I  lay  in  bed,  241. 
Deep  in  the  shady  sadness  of  a  vale,  199. 

Ever  let  the  Fancy  roam,  124. 

Fair  Isabel,  poor  simple  Isabel,  110. 

Fame,  like  a  wayward  girl,  will  still  be  coy, 

142. 
Fanatics  have  their  dreams,  wherewith  they 

weave,  233. 

Four  Seasons  fill  the  measure  of  the  year,  44. 
Fresh    morning    gusts    have    blown  away   all 

fear,  7. 
Full  many  a  dreary  hour  have  I  past,  24. 

Give  me  a  golden  pen  and  let  me  lean,  9. 
Give  me  your  patience,  sister,  while  I  frame, 

243. 

Glory  and  loveliness  have  pass'd  away,  37. 
God  of  the  golden-bow,  7. 
Good  Kosciusko,  thy  great  name  alone,  34. 
Great  spirits  now  on  earth  are  sojourning,  33. 


Had  I  a  man's  fair  form,  then  might  my  sighs, 

26. 

Hadst  thou  liv'd  in  days  of  old,  11. 
Happy,  happy  glowing  fire !  140. 
Happy  is  England !  I  could  be  content,  35. 
Hast  thou  from  the  caves  of  Golconda,  a  gem,  4. 
Haydon !  forgive  me  that  I  cannot  speak,  36. 
Hearken,  thou  craggy  ocean  pyramid,  121. 
He  is  to  weet  a  melancholy  Carle,  250. 
Hence  Burgundy,  Claret,  and  Port,  242. 
Here  all  the  summer  could  I  stay,  242. 
Highmindedness,  a  jealousy  for  good,  33. 
How  f ever'd  is  the  man,  who  cannot  look,  142. 
How  many  bards  gild  the  lapses  of  time  I  8. 
Hush,   hush !    tread  softly !    hush,  hush,  my 

dear!  120. 

I  cry  your  mercy —  pity  —  love  !  —  aye,  love,  215. 
If  by  dull  rhymes  our  English  must  be  chain' d, 

144. 
If  shame  can  on  a  soldier's  vein-swoll'n  front, 

192. 

I  had  a  dove  and  the  sweet  dove  died,  125. 
In  a  drear-nighted  December,  34. 
In  after-time,  a  sage  of  mickle  lore,  9. 
In  midmost  Ind,  beside  Hydaspes  cool,  216. 
In  the  wide  sea  there  lives  a  forlorn  wretch,  89. 
In  thy  western  halls  of  gold,  6. 
I  stood  tiptoe  upon  a  little  hill,  14. 
It  keeps  eternal  whisperings  around,  37. 

Keen,  fitful  gusts  are  whisp'ring  here  and  there, 

8. 
King  of  the  stormy  sea,  93. 

Lo  !  I  must  tell  a  tale  of  chivalry,  27. 

Many  the  wonders  I  this  day  have  seen,  26. 
Mother  of  Hermes !  and  still  youthful  Maia, 

119. 

Much  have  I  travell'd  in  the  realms  of  gold,  9. 
My  heart  aches,  and  a  drowsy  numbness  painst 

144. 
My  spirit  is  too  weak  —  mortality,  36. 

Nature  withheld  Cassandra  in  the  skies,  123. 
No,  no,  go  not  to  Lethe,  neither  twist,  126. 
Not  Aladdin  magian,  122. 
No  !  those  days  are  gone  away,  41. 


466 


INDEX   OF   FIRST   LINES 


Now  morning  from  her  orient  chamber  came,  1. 
Nymph  of  the  downward  smile  and  sidelong 
glance,  34. 

O  Arethusa,  peerless  nymph  !  why  fear,  77. 

O  blush  not  so  !  O  blush  not  so,  248. 

O  Chatterton !  how  very  sad  thy  fate,  2. 

O  come  Georgiana !   the  rose  is  full  blown,  240. 

Of  late  two  dainties  were  before  me  plac'd,  246. 

Oft  have  you  seen  a  swan  superbly  frowning,  30. 

O  Goddess !  hear  these  tuneless  numbers,  wrung, 

143. 
O  golden-tongued  Romance,  with  serene  lute  ! 

40. 

Oh  !  how  I  love,  on  a  fair  summer's  eve,  13. 
O,  I  am  f righten'd  with  most  hateful  thoughts  ! 

240. 

Old  Meg  she  was  a  Gipsy,  243. 
One  morn  before  me  were  three  figures  seen, 

136. 

0  soft  embalmer  of  the  still  midnight,  142. 
O  Solitude  !  if  I  must  with  thee  dwell,  12. 
O  Sorrow,  96. 

O  that  a  week  could  be  an  age,  and  we,  44. 
O  thou  whose  face  hath  felt  the  Winter's  wind, 

43. 
0  thou,  whose  mighty  palace  roof  doth  hang, 

52. 
O  !  were  I  one  of  the  Olympian  twelve,  239. 

Pensive  they  sit,  and  roll  their  languid  eyes, 

251. 
Physician  Nature  !  let  my  spirit  blood !  137. 

Read  me  a  lesson,  Muse,  and  speak  it  loud, 
123. 

St.  Agnes'  Eve  —  Ah,  bitter  chill  it  was !  127. 
Season  of  mists  and  mellow  fruitfulness,  213. 
Shed  no  tear  —  O  shed  no  tear,  141. 
Small,  busy  flames  play  through  the  fresh  laid 

coals,  33. 

So,  I  am  safe  emerged  from  these  broils  !  159. 
Sou  of  the  old  moon-mountains  African  !  41 
Souls  of  Poets  dead  and  gone,  40. 
Spenser  !  a  jealous  honourer  of  thine,  42. 
Spirit  here  that  reignest !  42. 
Standing  aloof  in  giant  ignorance,  110. 
Sweet  are  the  pleasures  that  to  verse  belong, 

10. 


The  church  bells  toll  a  melancholy  round,  35. 

The  day  is  gone,  and  all  its  sweets  are  gone,  214. 

The  Gothic  looks  solemn,  252. 

The  poetry  of  earth  is  never  dead,  35. 

There  is  a  charm  in  footing  slow  across  a  silent 

plain,  246. 

There  was  a  naughty  Boy,  244. 
The  stranger  lighted  from  his  steed,  240. 
The  sun,  with  his  great  eye,  239. 
The  Town,  the  churchyard,  and  the  setting  sun, 

120. 

Think  not  of  it,  sweet  one,  so,  38. 
This  mortal  body  of  a  thousand  days,  122. 
This  pleasant  tale  is  like  a  little  copse,  36. 
Thou  still  unravish'd  bride  of  quietness,  135. 
Time's  sea  hath  been  five  years  at  its  slow  ebb, 

124. 

'Tis  the  witching  time  of  night,  249. 
j   To-night  I'll  have  my  friar  —  let  me  think, 

239. 

To  one  who  has  been  long  in  city  pent,  13. 
Two  or  three  Posies,  251. 

Unfelt,  unheard,  unseen,  38. 

Upon  a  Sabbath-day  it  f  ell,  196. 

Upon  a  time,  before  the  faery  broods,  146. 

Upon  my  Life,  Sir  Nevis,  I  am  piqued,  247. 

Welcome  joy,  and  welcome  sorrow,  42. 

What  can  I  do  to  drive  away,  214. 

What  is  more  gentle  than  a  wind  in  summer  ?  18. 

What  though,  for  showing  truth  to  flatter'd 
state,  5. 

What  though,  while  the  wonders  of  nature  ex- 
ploring, 3. 

When  by  my  solitary  hearth  I  sit,  5. 

When  I  have  fears  that  I  may  cease  to  be,  39. 

When  they  were  come  into  the  Faery's  Court, 
249. 

When  wedding  fiddles  are  a-playing,  240. 

Where  be  ye  going,  you  Devon  maid  ?  243. 

Where 's  the  Poet  ?  show  him  !  show  him,  238. 

Who  loves  to  peer  up  at  the  morning  sun,  39. 

Who,  who  from  Dian's  feast  would  be  away  ? 
102. 

Why  did  I  laugh  to-night  ?  No  voice  will  tell, 
137. 

Woman  !  when  I  behold  thee  flippant,  vain,  2. 

Young  Calidore  is  paddling  o'er  the  lake,  28. 


INDEX   OF   TITLES 


[The  titles  of  major  works  and  general  divisions  are  set  in  SMALL  CAPITALS.] 


Acrostic :  Georgiana  Augusta  Wylie,  243. 

Addressed  to  Benjamin  Robert  Haydon,  33. 

'  Ah  !  woe  is  me  !  poor  silver-wing ! '  141. 

Ailsa  Rock,  To,  121. 

Apollo,  Hymn  to,  7. 

Apollo,  Ode  to,  6. 

4  Asleep  !  0  sleep  a  little  while,  white  pearl !  ' 

240. 

At  Fingal's  Cave,  122. 
At  Teignmouth,  242. 
Autumn,  To,  213. 

Bagpipe,    On     hearing  the,    and    seeing    The 

Stranger,  246. 

4  Bards  of  Passion  and  of  Mirth,'  125. 
Beaumont  and  Fletcher's  Works,  Song  written 

on  a  Blank  Page  in,  42. 
Belle  Dame  sans  Merci,  La,  139. 
Ben  Nevis,  Mrs.  Cameron  and,  247. 
Ben  Nevis,  Written  upon  the  Top  of,  123. 
BRAWNE,  FANNY,  VERSES  TO,  214. 
Brother  George,  To  my,  26. 
Brothers,  To  my,  33. 
Brown,  Charles  Armitage,  Spenserian  Stanzas 

on,  250. 

Burns,  On  visiting  the  Tomb  of,  120. 
Byron,  To,  2. 

Calidore  :  a  Fragment,  28. 

Cameron,  Mrs.,  and  Ben  Nevis,  247. 

CAP  AND  BELLS,  THE,  216. 

*  Castle  Builder,  The,'  Fragment  of,  239. 

Cat,  To  a,  252. 

Chapman's  Homer,  On  first  looking  into,  9. 

Chatterton,  To,  2. 

Chaucer's  Tale  of  The  Floure  and  the  Lefe, 
Written  on  the  Blank  Space  at  the  End  of,  36. 

Chorus  of  Fairies,  140. 

Clarke,  Charles  Cowden,  Epistle  to,  30. 

Cottage  where  Burns  was  born,  Written  in  the, 
121. 

Curious  Shell  and  a  Copy  of  Verses,  On  receiv- 
ing a,  4. 

Daisy's  Song,  239. 
Death,  On,  1. 
Devon  Maid,  The,  243. 
DRAMAS,  158. 


Draught  of  Sunshine,  A,  243. 
Dream  after  reading  Dante's  Episode  of  Paolo 
and  Francesca,  A,  138. 

EARLY  POEMS,  1. 

Elgin  Marbles,  On  seeing  the,  36. 

ENDYMION,  45. 

Epistles  : 

To  Charles  Cowden  Clarke,  30. 

To  George  Felton  Mathew,  9. 

To  John  Hamilton  Reynolds,  240. 

To  my  Brother  George,  24. 
Eve  of  St.  Agnes,  The,  127. 
Eve  of  St.  Mark,  The,  196. 
Eve's  Apple,  Sharing,  248. 
Extempore,  A  Little,  249. 
Extracts  from  an  Opera,  239. 

Faery  Songs,  141. 
Fairies,  Chorus  of,  140. 
Fame,  On,  142. 
Fame,  On,  Another,  142. 
FAMILIAR  VERSES,  240. 
Fancy,  124. 
Fanny,  Lines  to,  214. 
Fanny,  Ode  to,  137. 
Fanny,  To,  215. 
Fingal's  Cave,  At,  122. 
Folly's  Song,  240. 
Fragments  : 

Extracts  from  an  Opera,  239. 

Modern  Love,  238. 

Of  an  Ode  to  Maia,  119. 

The  Castle  Builder,  239. 

4  Welcome  joy,  and  welcome  sorrow,'  42. 

'  Where's  the  Poet  ?  show  him !  show  him,' 

238. 
Friend,  To  a,  who  sent  me  Some  Roses  13. 

Gadfly,  The,  245. 

G.  A.  W.,  To,  34. 

George,  Epistle  to  my  Brother,  24. 

George,  To  my  Brother,  26. 

Grasshopper  and  Cricket,  On  the,  35. 

Grecian  Urn,  Ode  on  a,  134. 

Haydon,  Benjamin  Robert,  Addressed  to,  33. 
Haydon,  To,  36. 


468 


INDEX   OF   TITLES 


Highlands,  Lines  written  in  the,  after  a  Visit  to 

Burns's  Country,  246. 
Homer,  To,  119. 
Hope,  To,  5. 

Human  Seasons,  The,  44. 
Hunt,  Leigh,  To,  37. 
Hunt,  Mr.  Leigh,  left  Prison,  Written  on  the 

Day  that,  5. 
Hunt's,  Leigh,  Poem,  The  Story  of  Rimini,  On, 

38. 

Hymn  to  Apollo,  7. 
HYPERION  :  A  FRAGMENT,  198. 
Hyperion  :  A  Vision,  233. 

Imitation  of  Spenser,  1. 

In  Answer  to  a  Sonnet  by  J.  H.  Reynolds,  43. 

Indolence,  Ode  on,  135. 

Induction  to  a  Poem,  Specimen  of  an,  27. 

ISABELLA,  OR  THE  POT  OF  BASIL,  110. 

'  I  stood  tip-toe  upon  a  little  hill,'  14. 

Keats,  George,  To  :  written  in  Sickness,  251. 

Keats,  Thomas,  To,  245. 

King  Lear  once  again,  On  sitting  down  to  read, 

40. 

King  Stephen  :  A  Dramatic  Fragment,  192. 
Kosciusko,  To,  34. 

La  Belle  Dame  sans  Merci,  139. 

Ladies,  To  Some,  3. 

Lady  seen  for  a  Few  Moments  at  Vauxhall,  To 

a,  123. 
LAMIA,  146. 
Last  Sonnet,  The,  232. 
Laurel  Crown,  To  a  Young  Lady  who  sent  me 

a,  7. 

Leander,  On  a  Picture  of,  38. 
Leaving  Some  Friends  at  an  Early  Hour,  On,  9. 
Lines  on  the  Mermaid  Tavern,  40. 
Lines  to  Fanny,  214. 
Lines  :  'Unfelt,  unseen,  unheard,'  37. 
Lines  written  in  the  Highlands,  after  a  Visit  to 

Burns's  Country,  246. 
Little  Extempore,  A,  249. 
Lock  of  Milton's  Hair,  On  seeing  a,  39. 
Lovers,  A  Party  of,  251. 

Maia,  Fragment  of  an  Ode  to,  119. 
Mathew,  George  Felton,  Epistle  to,  9. 
Meg  Merrilies,  243. 
Melancholy,  Ode  on,  126. 
Mermaid  Tavern,  Lines  on  the,  40. 
Milton's  Hair,  On  seeing  a  Lock  of,  39. 
Modern  Love,  238. 

Nightingale,  Ode  to  a,  144. 
Nile,  To  the,  41. 


4  O,    I     am     frighten'd     with    most    hateful 

thoughts ! '  240. 

4  0  !  were  I  one  of  the  Olympian  twelve,'  239. 
Ode  :  *  Bards  of  Passion  and  of  Mirth,'  125. 
Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn,  134. 
Ode  on  Indolence,  135. 
Ode  on  Melancholy,  126. 
Ode  to  a  Nightingale,  144. 
Ode  to  Apollo,  6. 
Ode  to  Fanny,  137. 
Ode  to  Maia,  Fragment  of  an,  119. 
Ode  to  Psyche,  142. 
On  a  Picture  of  Leander,  38. 
On  Death,  1. 
On  Fame,  142. 
On  Fame,  Another,  142. 
On  first  looking  into  Chapman's  Homer,  9. 
On  hearing  the  Bagpipe,  and  seeing  The  Stranger 

played  at  Inverary,  246. 

On  leaving  Some  Friends  at  an  Early  Hour,  9. 
On  Leigh  Hunt's  Poem  The  Story  of  Rimini,  38. 
On  Oxford,  252. 
On    receiving  a  Curious  Shell  and  a  Copy  of 

Verses,  4. 

On  seeing  a  Lock  of  Milton's  Hair,  39. 
On  seeing  the  Elgin  Marbles,  36. 
On  sitting  down  to  read  King  Lear  once  again, 

40. 

On  the  Grasshopper  and  Cricket,  35. 
On  the  Sea,  37. 

On .  *  Think  not  of  it,  sweet  one,  so,'  38. 

On  visiting  the  Tomb  of  Burns,  120. 
OTHO  THE  GREAT,  158. 

Party  of  Lovers,  A,  251. 

Picture  of  Leander,  On  a,  38. 

POEMS  OF  1818-1819,  THE,  110. 

Prophecy,  A  :  To  George  Keats  in  America, 

249. 
Psyche,  Ode  to,  142. 

Reynolds,  John  Hamilton,  Epistle  to,  240. 
Reynolds,  John  Hamilton,  To,  44. 
Robin  Hood,  41. 
Ronsard,  Translation  from  a  Sonnet  of,  123. 


Sea,  On  the,  37. 

Sharing  Eve's  Apple,  248. 

'  Shed  no  tear !  0  shed  no  tear  ! 

Sleep,  To,  142. 

Sleep  and  Poetry,  18. 

Solitude,  Sonnet  to,  12. 

Some  Ladies,  To,  3. 

Song  about  Myself,  A,  244. 

Songs : 

Daisy's  Song,  239. 

Faery  Songs,  141. 


141. 


INDEX   OF   TITLES 


469 


Folly's  Song,  240. 

'  Hush,  hush  !  tread  softly  !   hush,  hush,  my 

dear,'  120. 

4 1  had  a  dove,  and  the  sweet  dove  died,'  125. 
'  The  stranger  lighted  from  his  steed,'  240. 
Written  on  a  Blank  Page  in  Beaumont  and 

Fletcher's  Works,  42. 
Sonnets  : 

Addressed  to  Benjamin  Robert  Haydon,  33. 
'  After    dark    vapours    have    oppress'd    our 

plains,'  36. 
4  As  from  the  darkening  gloom  a  silver  dove,' 

12. 

'  Blue  !   't  is  the  life  of   heaven,  —  the  do- 
main,' 43. 
Dream  after  reading  Dante's  Episode  of  Paolo 

and  Francesca,  A,  138. 

'  Happy  is  England  !     I  could  be  content,'  35. 
'  How  many  bards  gild  the  lapses  of  time,'  8. 
Human  Seasons,  The,  44. 
'If    by  dull  rhymes  our    English  must  be 

chain'd,'  144. 
4  Keen,  fitful  gusts  are  whisp'ring  here  and 

there,'  8. 

Last  Sonnet,  The,  232. 

4  Oh !  how  I  love,  on  a  fair  summer's  eve,'  13. 
On  a  Picture  of  Leander,  38. 
On  Fame,  142. 
On  Fame,  Another,  142. 
On  first  looking  into  Chapman's  Homer,  9. 
On    hearing    the    Bagpipe    and   seeing    The 

Stranger  played  at  Inverary,  246. 
On  leaving  Some  Friends  at  an  Early  Hour,  9. 
On  Leigh  Hunt's  Poem  The  Story  of  Rimini, 

38. 

On  seeing  the  Elgin  Marbles,  36. 
On  sitting   down  to  read    King  Lear    once 

again,  40. 

On  the  Grasshopper  and  Cricket,  35. 
On  the  Sea,  37. 

On  visiting  the  Tomb  of  Burns,  120. 
4  The  day  is  gone,  and  all  its  sweets  are  gone  ! ' 

214. 

To  a  Cat,  252. 

To  a  Friend  who  sent  me  some  Roses,  13. 
To  Ailsa  Rock,  121. 
To  a  Lady  seen  for  a  Few  Moments  at  Vaux- 

hall,  123. 
To  a  Young  Lady  who  sent   me  a  Laurel 

Crown,  7. 
To  Byron,  2. 
To  Chatterton,  2. 
To  Fanny,  215. 
To  G.  A.  W.,  34. 
To  George  Keats,  251. 

To .    4  Had  I  a  man's  fair  form,'  26. 

To  Haydon,  36, 


To  Homer,  119. 

To  John  Hamilton  Reynolds,  44. 

To  Kosciusko,  34. 

To  Leigh  Hunt,  Esq.,  37. 

To  my  Brother  George,  26. 

To  my  Brothers,  33. 

4  To  one  who  has  been  long  in  city  pent,'  13. 

To  Sleep,  142. 

To  Solitude,  12. 

To  Spenser,  42. 

To  the  Nile,  41. 

Translation  from  a  Sonnet  of  Ronsard,  123. 

4  When  I  have  fears  that  I  may  cease  to  be,* 
39. 

4  Why  did  I  laugh  to-night  ?    No  voice  will 
tell,'  137. 

Written  in  Answer  to  a  Sonnet,  43. 

Written  in  Disgust  of  Vulgar  Superstition,  35. 

Written    in  the  Cottage  where  Burns  was 
born,  121. 

Written  on  the  Blank  Space  at  the  End  of 
Chaucer's  Tale  of  The  Floure  and  the  Lefe,  36. 

Written  on  the  Day  that  Mr.  Leigh  Hunt  left 
Prison,  5. 

Written  upon  the  Top  of  Ben  Nevis,  123. 
Specimen  of  an  Induction  to  a  Poem,  27. 
Spenser,  Imitation  of,  1. 
Spenserian  Stanza,  written  at  the  close  of  Canto 

II.,  Book  V.,  of  The  Faerie  Queene,  8. 
Spenserian  Stanzas  on  Charles  Armitage  Brown> 

250. 

Spenser,  To,  42. 

Stanzas  :  4  In  a  drear-nighted  December,1  34. 
Stanzas  to  Miss  Wylie,  240. 
SUPPLEMENTARY  VERSE,  233. 

To .    '  Hadst  thou  liv'd  in  days  of  old, '  11 .. 

To  a  Cat,  252. 

To  Autumn,  213. 

To  Fanny,  215. 

To  Homer,  119. 

To  Hope,  5. 

To  John  Hamilton  Reynolds,  44. 

To  Leigh  Hunt,  Esq.,  37. 

To  Sleep,  142. 

To  Some  Ladies,  3. 

To  Spenser,  42. 

To  the  Nile,  41. 

To  Thomas  Keats,  245. 

Translation  from  a  Sonnet  of  Ronsard,  123. 

Two  or  Three  Posies,  251. 

VERSES  TO  FANNY  BRAWNE,  214. 

Verses  written  during  a  Tour  in  Scotland,  120.. 

'  Welcome  joy,  and  welcome  sorrow,'  42. 
What  the  Thrush  said,  43. 


INDEX    OF   TITLES 


'Where's  the  Poet?    Show  him!  show  him,' 

238. 

1  Woman !  when  I  behold  thee,  flippant,  vain,'  2. 
Written  in  Answer  to  a  Sonnet,  43. 
Written  in  Disgust  of  Vulgar  Superstition,  35. 
Written  in  the  Cottage  where  Burns  was  born, 

121. 


Written  on  the  Blank  Space  at  the  End  of 
Chaucer's  Tale  of  The  Floure  and  the  Lefe, 
36. 

Written  on  the  Day  that  Mr.  Leigh  Hunt  left 
Prison,  5. 

Written  upon  the  Top  of  Ben  Nevis,  123. 

Wylie,  Miss,  Stanzas  to,  240. 


INDEX   TO   LETTERS 


AGRICULTURE,  the  effect  of,  on  character,  392, 

393. 

Ailsa  Rock,  312. 

Amena's  letters  to  Tom  Keats,  364,  366. 
America,  in  its  relation  to  England,  332. 

Bailey,  Benjamin,  entertains  Keats  at  Oxford, 
264  ;  has  a  curacy,  271 ;  his  love  affairs,  357  ; 
letters  to,  270,  271, 273,  283,  290,  303,  305,  318, 
387. 

Ben  Nevis,  ascent  of,  323,  324. 

Brawne,  Fanny,  first  met  by  Keats,  340 ;  de- 
scribed by  Keats,  342;  tiffs  with,  353;  ar- 
dently loved  by  Keats,  380,  and  in  subse- 
quent letters  commended  to  Brown,  448 ; 
letters  to,  380,  382,  383,  384,  386,  388,  393, 413, 
414,  423,  424,  425,  426,  427,  428,  429,  430,  432, 
433,  436,  438,  440,  441. 

Brawne,  Mrs.,  takes  Brown's  house,  340 ;  Keats 
dines  with  her,  345  ;  letter  to,  446. 

Brown,  Charles  Annitage,  Letters  to,  410,  411, 
437,  444,  445,  447,  448. 

Burford  Bridge,  275. 

Burns,  Robert,  visit  to  the  country  of,  308,  310, 
313,  315. 

Burton's  Anatomy  of  Melancholy,  quoted,  397. 

Carisbrooke,  Isle  of  Wight,  257. 

Charmian,  331. 

Chatterton,  Thomas,  Keats  inscribes  Endymion 

to  his  memory,  297  ;   thinks  his  the  purest 

English,  404. 

Christ,  Keats's  thoughts  on,  363. 
Claret,  the  charms  of,  356. 
Clarke,  Charles  Cowden,  Letters  to,  255. 
Coleridge,  Samuel  Taylor,  272,  277. 
Cornwall,  Barry,  431. 
Cripps,  Mr.,  269,  272,  275,  279,  281. 

Dante,  Keats  proposes  to  take  him  on  a  jour- 
ney, 306. 

Devonshire,  Keats's  opinion  of,  290,  292,  294. 

Dilke,  Charles  Wentworth,  interest  of  in  his 
boy's  education,  356  ;  his  absorption  in  his 
boy,  305,  386,  396  ;  his  character,  405 ;  letters 
to,  273,  326,  351,  385,  409,  412,  431,  436. 

Elmes,  James,  letter  to,  378. 

Endymion,  begun  by  Keats,  260  ;  the  story  of, 


told  to  Fanny  Keats,  264  ;  draws  near  a  close, 
269 ;  a  test  of  his  power  of  imagination,  270  ; 
completed,  281  ;  to  serve  as  a  pioneer,  289 ; 
preface  to,  296. 

Examiner,  The,  a  battering  ram  against  Chris- 
tianity, 258  ;  has  a  good  word  on  Wellington, 
262 ;  Keats's  notice  in  it  of  Reynolds's  Peter 
Bell,  367. 

Fingal's  Cave,  322. 

French  Revolution,  Keats  on  the,  398. 

Godwin,  William,  346. 

Goldfish,  Keats's  fancy  of  a  globe  of,  372. 

Greek,  Keats  wishes  to  learn,  299. 

Haslam,  William,  letter  to,  375. 

Haydon,  Benjamin  Roberts,  Keats's  first  ac- 
quaintance with,  255 ;  advises  Keats  to  go 
into  the  country,  255  ;  his  quarrel  with  Hunt, 
270 ;  proposes  to  make  a  frontispiece  for  En- 
dymion, 281 ;  his  effect  on  Keats,  296  ;  money 
affairs  with,  350  ;  letters  to,  260,  269,  279, 293, 
295,  349,  350,  351,  371,  373,  379,  412,  440,  443. 

Hazlitt,  William,  on  Southey,  259;  thinks 
Shakespeare  enough  for  us,  261 ;  his  Bound 
Table,  269 ;  his  essay  on  commonplace  peo- 
ple, 272;  his  lecture  on  poetry,  287,  289; 
prosecutes  Blackwood,  327 ;  his  letter  to  Gif- 
ford,  358  ;  his  retort,  359. 

Hessey,  James  Augustus,  letter  to,  328. 

Hunt,  Leigh,  self-delusions  of,  261 ;  his  quarrel 
with  Haydon,  270  ;  attack  on,  in  Edinburgh 
Magazine,  273 ;  his  own  name  coupled  with, 
273  ;  his  criticism  of  Endymion,  282  ;  shows 
Keats  a  lock  of  Milton's  hair,  284 ;  his  char- 
acter, 341 ;  his  conversation  quoted,  343 ;  let- 
ter to,  258. 

Hyperion,  has  too  many  Miltonic  inversions,  408. 

Indiaman,  Keats's  prospect  of  service  on  an, 
377. 

Jeffrey,  Misses  M.  and  S.,  letter  to,  304. 
Jeffrey,  Mrs.,  letters  to,  303,  376,  377. 

Kean,  Edmund,  in   Richard   III.,  276;    dis- 
cussed, 277. 
Keats,  Fanny,  letters  to,  264,  308,  325, 326, 328, 


472 


INDEX   TO    LETTERS 


336,  337,  338,  350,  351,  352,  371,  372,  373,  374, 
375,  376,  378,  379,  381,  390,  414,  416,  417,  418, 
423,  424,  425,  427,  429,  433,  434,  435,  438,  439, 
440,  442,  444. 

Keats,  George,  his  resolution  to  go  to  America, 
303 ;  his  marriage,  305  ;  arrival  in  America, 
336  ;  return  to  England  on  a  brief  visit,  418. 

Keats,  George  and  Thomas,  Letters  to,  256, 276, 
277,  280,  281,  286,  288. 

Keats,  George  and  Georgiana,  letters  to,  329, 
338,  353,  394,  418. 

Keats,  John,  goes  to  Southampton,  256 ;  visits 
Carisbrooke,  257  ;  cannot  exist  without  po- 
etry, 258  ;  begins  Endymion,  258  ;  habits  of 
reading  and  writing,  260  ;  is  painted  in  a  pic- 
ture by  Haydon,  261 ;  borrows  money  of  Tay- 
lor and  Hessey,  262  ;  leaves  Margate  for  Can- 
terbury, 262  ;  asks  for  more  money,  263  ;  goes 
to  Oxford,  263 ;  rows  on  the  Isis,  267  ;  makes 
good  progress  with  Endymion,  269 ;  goes  to 
Hampstead,  270 ;  regards  his  long  poem  as 
a  test  of  power  of  imagination,  270  ;  is  at 
Dorking,  275 ;  reads  Shakespeare's  sonnets, 
276;  criticises  West's  painting  of  Death  on 
the  Pale  Horse,  277 ;  writes  articles  for 
The  Champion,  111  ;  calls  on  Wordsworth, 
278  ;  passes  in  the  first  book  of  Endymion, 
281;  goes  to  hear  Hazlitt  lecture  on  poetry, 
282  ;  his  recipe  for  a  pleasant  life,  286 ;  is 
reading  Voltaire  and  Gibbon,  289 ;  goes  to 
Devonshire,  290;  goes  to  Honiton,  303;  re- 
turns to  Hampstead,  303 ;  goes  to  Kesvvick 
by  way  of  Ambleside,  307 ;  climbs  Skiddaw 
and  goes  to  Carlisle,  307  ;  visits  the  haunts  of 
Burns,  308  ;  visits  the  Meg  Merrilies  country, 
309  ;  crosses  to  Ireland,  311 ;  sees  Ailsa  crag, 
312;  goes  to  Glasgow,  313;  rehearses  his 
route,  314  ;  traverses  Loch  Lomond,  316 ;  in 
view  of  the  Hebrides,  317 ;  reaches  Inverary, 
318  ;  comes  to  the  Isle  of  Mull,  319 ;  crosses 
the  isle,  321;  visits  Fingal's  Cave,  322; 
climbs  Ben  Nevis,  323;  returns  to  Hamp- 
stead, 325  ;  recounts  his  passage  from  Inver- 
ness, 330  ;  has  an  encounter  with  an  unnamed 
Lady,  334;  notifies  his  brother  George  of 
their  brother  Tom's  death,  338 ;  meets  Fanny 
Brawne  for  the  first  time,  340 ;  describes  her, 
342 ;  borrows  money  of  Taylor,  349 ;  lends 
money  to  Haydon,  350 ;  goes  to  Chichester, 
353;  goes  to  the  consecration  of  a  chapel, 
355  ;  considers  the  question  of  going  to  Edin- 
burgh and  studying  medicine,  361 ;  considers 
also  the  plan  of  going  as  surgeon  on  an  India- 
man,  377  ;  is  obliged  to  refuse  money  to  Hay- 
don, 379 ;  goes  to  Shanklin,  Isle  of  Wight, 
380 ;  describes  his  life  there,  381 ;  goes  to 
Winchester,  387  ;  engaged  on  Hyperion,  387  ; 


works  with  Brown  on  a  tragedy,  3S9  ;  de- 
scribes Winchester,  391 ;  goes  up  to  London, 
393;  returns  to  Winchester,  394;  describes 
an  election  there,  400  ;  plays  a  joke  on  Brown, 
406  ;  gives  up  Hyperion,  408  ;  returns  to  town, 
413  ;  is  attacked  with  illness,  423  ;  is  ordered 
to  Italy,  439  ;  reaches  Rome,  448. 
Keats,  Thomas,  sickness  of,  275,  335,  337  ;  his 
death,  338 ;  his  affair  with  Wells,  364  ;  letters 
to,  307,  310,  312,  316,  320,  322. 

Milton,  John,  influence  of,  on  the  world,  294  ; 
compared  with  Wordsworth,  301. 

Orinda,  the  Matchless,  referred  to  and  quoted, 

268. 
Oxford,  visited  by  Keats,  264;  described  by 

him,  264. 

Philips,  Mrs.,  author  of  The  Matchless  Orinda, 
268. 

Poetry,  Keats  cannot  exist  without,  258  ;  unable 
to  talk  of  it,  261 ;  the  quality  of  length  in, 
270,  271 ;  a  few  axioms  concerning,  289  ;  the 
relief  brought  by,  328;  its  effect  on  charac- 
ter, 336. 

Psyche,  on  Ode  to,  371. 

Quarterly,  The,  attempt  of,  to  crush  Keats,  330. 

Religion,  Keats's  ideas  about,  291. 
Reynolds,  Jane,  letters  to,  265,  326. 
Reynolds,  John  Hamilton,  letters  to,  255,  257, 

267,  269,  275,  285,  287,  292,  299,  314,  327,  390, 

428. 

Reynolds,  Mariane  and  Jane,  letter  to,  263. 
Reynolds,  Mrs.,  letter  to,  349. 
Rice,  James,  letters  to,  294,  337,  416,  426. 

Scott,  Walter,  Keats's  opinion  of,  279. 

Severn,  Joseph,  a  friend  of  Keats,  255  ;  letters 
to,  373,  415,  416. 

Shakespeare,  Keats  finds  a  head  of,  257 ;  ob- 
serving his  birthday,  258,  287  ;  his  Christian- 
ity, 259  ;  a  presiding  genius,  260  ;  enough  for 
us,  261 ;  his  sonnets,  276 ;  supposed  seal  of, 
293. 

Shelley,  Percy  Bysshe,  'telling  strange  stories 
of  the  deaths  of  kings,'  259 ;  his  Queen  Mab, 
277  ;  letter  to,  442. 

Snook,  Mr.,  267,  353,  354. 

Soul-making,  369. 

Southampton,  journey  to,  256. 

Staffer,  318,  320,  321. 

Taylor,  Anne  and  Jane,  poems  by,  265. 
Taylor  and  Hessey,  letters  to,  262,  263,  290, 293. 


INDEX   TO   LETTERS 


473 


Taylor,  John,  letters  to,  281,  284,  286,  289,  298, 
306,  349,  389,  392,  415,  437,  443,  444. 

Velocipede,  The,  361. 

Way's,  Mr.,  chapel  and  its  consecration,  355. 

Wellington,  the  Duke  of,  discussed  in  The  Ex- 
aminer, 262. 

Wells,  Charles  J.,  278;  his  relations  to  Tom 
Keats,  364,  366. 

West,  Benjamin,  277. 


Winchester,  description  of,  387,  389,  391. 

Woodhouse,  Richard,  letters  to,  336,  348. 

Wordsworth,  William,  not  to  be  detracted 
from,  262 ;  read  by  Keats  on  the  Isis,  267  ; 
criticism  of  his  k  Gipsy,'  272 ;  rank  of  The  Ex- 
cursion, 280 ;  criticised  for  his  theories,  285, 
286 ;  his  effect  on  the  lakes,  293 ;  compared 
with  Milton,  301 ;  his  place  in  the  Mansion 
of  Many  apartments,  302  ;  his  home  at  Rydal, 
307. 

Wylie,  Mrs.,  letter  to,  324. 


35^5 


£333 

im 


